


Keep on riding

by mimerswell



Series: Bells [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Adolescence, Blood and Gore, Brotherly Love, Child Abuse, Dialogue Heavy, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Explicit Language, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Internal Conflict, Mental Instability, Moral conflicts, Murdering (later chapters), Mystery, Sexism, Slow Pace, Year of 1874, graphic depictions of death, mentions of animal cruelty/death, non-canon, past and new trauma, several plotlines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23068669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimerswell/pseuds/mimerswell
Summary: The Bell family is always on the move with no real destination in mind. Having his boys to look after, blurring the lines between right and wrong is the one and only option for Micah Bell Jr.
Relationships: Micah Bell & Arthur Morgan, Micah Bell & family
Series: Bells [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773850
Comments: 22
Kudos: 32





	1. The man who never miss

**Author's Note:**

> This story mostly just follows the Bell family over the course of a few months. It's (mildly) graphic and offensive at times, please read the tags before starting since they all apply. 
> 
> Thanks for coming here and giving this fic a shot. Any grammar or spelling errors are all on me.

There are only four souls in the saloon after the company of drunken men had left in a laughter, heading for the brothel to give in to their fleshly desires. 

Payton was a small town that didn't care much for newcomers but when a blonde man he'd never seen before answers he's just passing by for a quick stop, the barkeeper gives a simple nod as approval. The sooner he fixed him up with his order, the sooner he'd be on his way again. In the meantime, he could easily earn a dollar extra on this man. 

The blonde man stands to order another drink in the saloon that has far passed its opening hours. He is not deep in thought, rarely is. 

He shoots a look over his shoulder, making sure the two boys are still there and if they are watching him. They're sitting at one of the many round tables that fill up the most part of the sad saloon. The oldest kid stares back at him with an attentive look from under the brim of his hat. The younger is drowsy, looking like he could drift into it any second as he rests his head in hand. 

The hour is indeed late and the blonde supposes an ordinary man with common sense would be in bed by now. As should the boys behind him. But he'd never had any common sense. 

He takes a new hold of the glass in front of him and raises it to his lips. He swallows the content at once and puts it down just as quickly. The bottom of the glass hits the surface of the bartop hard, making the younger boy jerk fully awake with one sudden inhale of air. 

"You want another, mister? 'Cause you don't seem like the type to have a missus waiting for you, being on the road and all that." The barkeeper chuckles lowly to himself and pours up another without his customer's say-so. 

The blonde gazes up at the man that stands before him now, having emerged from his corner a lot quieter than one could guess by his physique. 

The blonde arches his brows deeply a few seconds before he clears his throat. "Well I… I guess that depends on the circumstances. And time…let's not forget the time." His voice is clear and soft like silk. A contrast to the rest of his person. "Say, when do you usually lock this place up for the night?" 

The barkeeper speaks almost in sighs, he could just as well have been rolling his eyes. "About midnight or so…" 

"Seems kinda early for a saloon." 

"...but it all depends on the circumstances, as you put it. But I'd say it's closer to an hour after. Drunken buffoons like the ones you saw earlier apparently can't read the sign. This here, is a quiet town so around midnight works fine. Most of the times anyhow..." He almost snarls out the last words as he turns around to place the bottle he's holding back where it belongs on the shelf.

"Hm," is the blonde's only reply to the small bitter remark, considering he himself hadn't noticed the sign that said 'Closed'. "And what's the hour now?" 

The blonde pays close attention to the pocket watch the barkeeper fishes up. The oldest boy does too from where he's sitting. 

It doesn't go unnoticed and the older man puts away the watch in its place and raises his chin. "Twenty past tw-"

"Twenty, past, two…" the blonde echoes before the barkeeper finishes his sentence, a small pause between each word.

"That's right." 

The blonde offers a charming smile and leans forward some more, one boot placed on the foot rail. " _Why_?" he drags out on the word. 

The barkeeper looks confused. "Why, what, mister?" 

The other doesn't say anything for a few moments. Never looks away from the chubby old man with both spectacles and a silver pocket watch in his possession. He decides then and there he does not care much about rude men like the barkeeper. With a swift movement, he puts on a remnant from the war; a gray old slouch hat that had been waiting for him on the stool next to him. 

The blonde pushes away from the bartop he had been leaning against and takes a couple of steps back. "I'm wondering _whyyy the hell_ am I and these two brats behind me doing here if you closed an hour ago?" he laughs out and gestures with a thumb over his shoulder at the two boys. " _Whyyy_ haven't you asked us to _leeeave_ _yet?_ I mean, you _poor,_ _poor_ old man, you must be needing a good night's sleep. I even bet you got a pretty wife of yours waiting up for you back home, hm?"

The barkeeper is still, surprised from the strange combination of politeness and scoffing. 

The blonde man paces around with slower steps now, a smile still lingering on his lips as his gaze is all but glued to the old man's face. 

"I uh, only throw troublemakers out," is the barkeeper's simple answer, his tone not as condescending after he sees a glimpse of the six shooters under his customer's duster coat as the latter makes his few turns on the spot. "W-would be rude to ask you to leave, 'cause you seem like a decent type to me, just an ordinary customer wanting a drink," he rushes out. 

"Uh-uh-uh. I didn't want _that_ drink, _did_ I?" the blonde points out in an instant, lifting up a finger and gesturing it at the filled glass. "You just poured up another one, because that is what you do, and what you will do for the reeeest of your miserable life and all you've _ever_ been good at. Am. I. _Right_ ?" He snaps his fingers two times. "I _even_ bet you doubled the price for me, considering the simple, ehrm, _'passerby'_ as I am." 

The barkeeper shakes his head as to shut down the accusations. "Please. There's no need for impoliteness, mister." 

It had escalated quickly. The blonde was not smiling anymore. Now he was boring through him with his gaze, a wild look in his eyes had replaced the calm in them from only five minutes ago. The barkeeper thinks hard on what exactly had caused this tension, or more precisely on how they could _relieve_ the tension. 

The blonde suddenly snaps his fingers again, this time close to frantically. "Mm. You know what? I've got something that's all I ever been good at too. _Yes_. That's right." He looks like he just now was reminded of something that was long forgotten. 

From their spot in the background, the youngest boy looks at the older, frowning as to ask what they could or should do. The older merely shakes his head as answer. 

The barkeeper flinches when the blonde man draws both his guns in the blink of an eye. 

With arms bent, the man holds his two Colts not aimed at the other but to the ceiling. "Now, with these…" He taps with them in the air as to make sure the other sees them properly. "...with these, I can show you what _I'm_ good at. And _all_ _little pretty_ _you_ gotta do - is look my way. How about it?" 

The barkeeper's lower lip starts to tremble and he wishes to God Almighty he had been more strict with his opening hours. 

"There's no need for any trouble, mist-" 

"I knoooow, 'cause you, you throw them troublemakers out, don't you…! Real tough son of a bitch." He chuckles wildly and gestures at him with one of the guns. "Nooooo. If you'll just do as I say, you'll be fine. You have my word on that. Sounds good enough for you?" 

The blonde man sounds awfully sincere as he speaks, almost excited about what he wants to show. The barkeeper feels he has no other choice but to nod. Up until this night, he had been lucky in this small and quiet town. It was as if the raging savagery in their country had never quite reached them. And so there had never been a need for a weapon, despite his fellow friend's (who owned the General store next door) advice of getting a shotgun. 

The blonde lights up by the man's answer. "Alright then. _Boy!"_

The blonde gives a nod to the older kid. The boy is quickly up from his chair and walks over to his side. "Yes, sir."

"Be a good boy and place one of them bottles on him, will ya."

The kid nods and instead of going around the counter, he jumps straight up on it with one swift and lean motion and jumps down on the other side next to the old man. "Well howdy." He tips his hat to greet him and the barkeeper furrows his brows. 

"Take one of the cheap ones. We don't want to waste a _good_ bottle now," the man orders as the boy is looking around the bar. 

The kid finds a half empty bottle of bourbon he settles with. He pushes the man roughly at his back in order for him to move around the counter so they stand beside it. 

The blonde man takes a sip from the drink he didn't ask for and the younger kid watches the three of them with big eyes, preferring to keep in the background. 

"If I was you," the older boy says with a low voice, his light blue eyes just as penetrating and intense as the man's as they watch the barkeeper. "I'd be standing _real_ still." 

"Real still," the blonde man echoes. "I don't want to see that bottle drop to the floor unless I give my say-so. If it does...Well. You lose." He aims at old man and without a sound, he pretends to fire his right hand gun. He smiles widely. 

The barkeeper's eyes shoot between the boy and the man, his breathing becoming slightly heavier. 

"But do not worry. He's never one to miss. Now stand still, will you." The boy places the bottle on the man's head gently, trying to find the exact spot where it will keep in place. He lifts his hands away carefully and takes a few steps back. Before turning away he adds, with a malicious smile, "but I guess that depends on where he's aiming." He lifts his hand up and taps his index and middle finger at the spot between his own eyebrows. "My bet is, it's _here_."

"This is _absurd!_ " The barkeeper looks like he wants to spit in the boy's face but the kid is untouched by it. He looks merely amused by the way the man is struggling to keep the bottle from falling while delivering his exclamations. The man is becoming noticeably nervous. "What wrong have I ever done you?" he asks with desperation. His gaze lands on the blonde man. "I don't even know you." 

"You were being _rude_ , that's what you were and now I'm gonna have my goddamn fun! That a good enough reason for you?!" The blonde yells it out and gestures wildly at him with one of his guns. 

"I can't believe this…"

"Shut your mouth, _please_." The blonde man rolls his eyes as he puts back his left hand gun. He keeps the other and cocks back the hammer. 

"Boy." He looks at the youngest over his shoulder. "Go ready the horses."

The boy looks between the older kid and the blonde man, glued to his spot. He had been an observer for so long he didn't respond at first. 

"Did you hear what I just said? _Go ready the horses._ And don't, uhm, ' _lose'_ none of them, like that other time, will ya _…_ " 

The younger boy lowers his head by the remark. A mistake made two years ago still followed him around. 

" _Then_ you'll wait for us… Go on, get."

The child nods quickly and offers a 'yes sir' just as. 

They all wait for the child to get out. The blonde then proceeds to back as far away he can from his target, ending up by the main door to the saloon. Beads of sweat can be seen glistening from the barkeeper's forehead even at that distance. 

The blonde man lifts his gun and aims at the barkeeper. "Oh yeah. I forgot to tell you that the kid over there will take whatever valuables you got in this shithole of a bar." The blonde gives a tilted head and a shrug of a shoulder. "My bad." 

"You goodfern-" 

The blonde ignores the barkeeper's effort of insulting him and insteads talks over him." _WILL YOU_ , be a good boy and take whatever's worth taking." He gives a meaningful look to the boy. 

The kid doesn't say a word and he hurries to scavenge the place, picking the register clean and looking for hidden places behind the counter. 

"You _filthy_ no-good…! I should have seen what you were…" The barkeeper's voice is trembling as he continues his rant. "Goddamn outlaws ruining our country."

"Yeah. You really should have," the blonde agrees. "The world's changing, old man, and it has been ever since the war. _Now_ , it's a different kind of war and you're on the losing side of it. Not me. Nuh-uh." He shakes his head almost violently. 

The boy pauses and watches the blonde man. He can clearly see how the man starts to become unfocused, it had happened more frequently lately. He holds his breath at first but the man pulls it together quickly. 

"Boy!" The blonde raises his voice as he sees that the boy has stopped searching. He quickly continues doing what he's told and after some time, he's satisfied with what he's gathered. 

He hurries to the door in order for them to leave but the blonde man yanks a hold of his arm. 

"Somewhere else you wanna look before we leave? You _might_ or might _not_ have forgotten something."

The boy looks around like crazy, trying to figure it out. He had looked in every corner of the building, even felt at the floorboards. Then he remembers. He walks over to the barkeeper that looks awfully ridiculous with the bottle still on his head. "I'll take that from you," he states as he takes the pocket watch from him. 

"You dirty little rat. That's worth more than your life!" the man sneers. 

"Watch your mouth, fat man." The boy reveals a revolver of his own under his too long coat. "Because I know where I would be aiming." He spits at the floor in front of the man's feet before he heads for the exit. He stops by the blonde's side and hands the watch to him. 

The blonde inspects the watch with half a smile and puts it in his own pocket. "Beautiful piece of work… Thank you, kindly, mister. And for the drinks as well. I suppose that last one is on the house."

The barkeeper is more angrified than scared by now, his face turning into a darker pink shade than before. 

"It was a pleasure but we must unfortunately be on our way. The night doesn't last forever, does it." 

The boy opens the door and slinks silently outside into the darkness and the man backs slowly away over the threshold and down the steep steps outside. The door hits to a close and the barkeeper simply stands there with the bottle still on his head. 

He briefly wonders what the hell was the meaning of it now that they left. He stands still for a few moments, taken aback by it all. 

Then the door suddenly flies open again and he hasn't the time to blink as the bottle is disintegrated to a thousand pieces and his whole face is covered with cheap bourbon and the smallest shards of glass. The loud bang must be enough to wake up the whole town. 

"I _never_ miss!" comes a shout from outside, followed by a crazy laughter. The barkeeper wipes over his eyes and has a second to see the tip of a hat to him from the blonde, sitting on his rearing horse before taking off. 

The barkeeper stumbles after them outside. "I will see to that they hang you low-lives! Bastards!" he shouts after the company of three, all in vain. 

^^^

The blonde man reaches with his fingers and taps at the small hand holding hard at the reins as to not fall off. "You good there, Ame?" he asks the youngest boy as they had ridden for over an hour. 

"Yeah, sleepy is all," Amos answers from where he sits on his Mahogany Bay Tennessee, simply called 'Ema.' 

"Gonna make a stop here for the night. Or what's left of it."

It's dark and the oldest boy leads the way through the abandoned area where half of the houses have fallen apart. He jumps off his horse Tido to lead her instead as he sheds some light with his lantern. 

"Found something, Mikey?" he hears his father call from behind after a while. 

"Think so!" the kid calls back and pushes the door open to one of the houses. At least the roof is still intact on this one. He examines the rooms and it only takes a couple of seconds for him to judge it will be a perfect stay for the night. 

The blonde man hitches the horses outside and waits for the younger child to get down. He brings them inside and heads for one of the rooms to take a look. There's a thick layer of dust everywhere and he whips at the bed a couple of times to see the particles whirl up in the moonlit air. 

"Maybe it's best if we sleep outside," the man coughs out. 

"I don't care," Amos answers and pulls up his bandana to cover his mouth and nose. He crashes down on the mattress and falls asleep within seconds. 

At the steps to the house, sits his oldest son, looking at the fireflies that light up momentarily like small stars in the dark.

The man leans against one of the two pillars on the half rotten porch. "You did good back there, Micah." 

The boy inhales deeply and glances at the man with what could be described as scepticism. It was rare for the man to praise him. 

"Thanks. Uhm. So did you." The words lie uncomfortable in his mouth. "Part of me was kinda hoping you'd miss and hit him straight between the eyes though."

The blonde man snorts. "Yeah, he was a pretty unlikeable character, wasn't he."

"Yeah. Rude."

The blonde man's eyes light of the bluest color, even in the darkness. " _Very._ "

"Not like it would have matter." 

"Would what matter?"

"If he had been likeable. We'd still robbed him if he was."

"Of course. You should know by now that we take what we need because this is how the world looks like now. At least the world that we're allowed to live in."

"Then what's he got left?" 

The blonde man looks back at his son with an expression that gives away little to no reflection of his inner thoughts. He smirks. "Man like him has got more money than was in that register. He's one of them folks that believes he's better than others because he's got slightly more than the rest of us. So if you feel bad for picking the place clean - don't." His reassuring smile fades out. "Cause you won't last long if you do." 

The kid nods without any objections. "You got it all wrong. I don't… _feel bad_ over it," he then admits. "I just wondered where we stand in all this."

"You know where we stand." The blonde grunts after a moment of silence. "You should get some sleep. It's been a long night." He pats his son on his shoulder once before heading inside the house. 

Micah doesn't want to sleep. He hated the lack of control one got while doing so. But his father always said that he needed him to stay sharp, and so he had to try. 

He finds a couch despite there being another bed in the room Amos sleeps in. He lifts a dirty old quilt over his lean body and closes his eyes. 

It's always the same nightmare whenever one of those come for him. His mother, screaming so horrifying it ruptures his eardrums. It's a haunting sound for him and he panics in his sleep. The dream itself is only visual fragments but they include his father too, lulling him to calm down. 

When he wakes up, he's always drenched in sweat but he remembers everything. Of course he would, because the dream is not a dream, it's a distant memory.


	2. Practice and you shall recieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Micah challenges their father, he and Amos contemplate their existence. Continuing forward on the roads, they make a stop in another town.

Micah’s father had been the moody type as long as he could remember but he had to admit that these last couple of days had been stabile. But if he were to count the last couple of years, he had become worse, all in all. 

They had stayed at the abandoned house for three nights now and having plans of keep on riding was the one and only suggestion. 

Micah was practicing his one-hand shooting when his father lost both his patience and temper. 

"You aim too far to the right. _Again_."

"It's the wind," Micah explains convinced as he reloads his revolver the fastest he can, that also being part of his training. 

"It's not the wind, so don't you try that with me. Can you see the leaves shaking? Feel the breeze to your skin? Your fair locks blowing in the wind?" The man gestures with emphasis to his words. " _Noo?_ Then it's _not_ it. It's your pissy poor aim." 

Micah chews at his lower lip irritated as he finishes reloading. He aims slightly more to the left with focus and fires. The steel can flies off immediately from the big rock it was placed on. 

Micah Bell Jr. gives a single nod as to say 'I-told-you-so' and his kid looks at him from the corner of his eye. 

"You gotta become better at this. Amos is only eleven and keeps his aim better than you did when you were his age."

Micah almost gasps. "He does _not!_ And you know I shoot better with my left."

"I know you do. That's why you gotta practice with that… that utterly _atrocious_ right of yours." The blonde gestures at him with a motion of his whole arm and then tiredly rubs a hand over his face. 

"Wha…what's 'atrocious'?" 

"Means awful. _Real_ awful."

Micah huffs at the harsh critique he can't stand. He feels cornered. What bugs him the most is how the man compares him with his brother. Nothing he hated more, given how different they were.

The blonde makes a rolling motion with his hand. "Again."

Micah sighs deeply but do as he says. He puts up another can on the rock and moves back, a little further this time. He hits it with the first shot this time around and it lightens up his mood a bit. However, the feeling doesn't last very long. 

"Would you have hit it if it was moving?" 

Micah’s proud smile dies out. "Probably not, _sir_ ," he admits through gritted teeth. 

The man leans down to pick up an empty can from the small pile. He weighs it in hand. "How about this…I'm gonna throw one, aaaand you're gonna hit it."

"Are you jo-"

"I _said_ , _I'm gonna throw one, and you're going to hit it."_

The kid stares at his father incredulously, breathing a little faster at the (what if felt like) impossible request. 

The man tosses it up in the air and catches it a few times as he waits for Micah to get ready. When he is, he backs away so that they are in acceptable distance from each other. 

"Ready?" 

_Hell no._

Micah reluctantly nods and raises his gun. 

The can flies high up in the air and he follows it with an intense focus before he fires. He misses of course and struggles with pulling the hammer back as quickly as his father, to shoot one more time. The second time, he misses again. He doesn't have enough time for a third try before the piece of metal hits the ground. 

He looks at his father and sees the utter disappointment in his eyes despite them not watching him. The man walks over and stares at the intact can on the ground further away. He doesn't say anything at first. 

"Sir?" Micah asks when the silent moment drags on enough to become uncomfortable. 

The man picks up the can to inspect it more thoroughly, turning it in hand. 

"I…I can try again…" Micah suggests. 

He doesn't have the time to react before the can hits him in his forehead with a forceful throw from his father. He instantly covers the pained area. 

"You _worthless_ little animal!" his father suddenly yells, full with rage. 

Micah sees the man walk over to him with quick and determined steps and he suddenly feels very small. His father grabs him by the arm and gives it a violent shake. 

"I bet you couldn't have hit your target even if your life depended on it!"

The kid doesn't resist despite the grip hurting like hell. He doesn't look away from the man's blue eyes neither and a brief moment of hatred can easily be seen in the kid's face. 

The man stares him down before he says: "Useless," and surprisingly lets him go. He is about to take off, heading for the horses. "Ree! Boy!" Then he whistles. His Hungarian Half-bred is busy grazing on a fresh patch of grass he had found but he instantly leaves it to listen to the call of his master.

Micah grinds his teeth and huffs through his nose as he watches him on his way to leave. He doesn't consider it as he raises his gun, using his both hands this time. 

The man hears a familiar click sound of a hammer being cocked back, just before his hat suddenly flies off. The loud bang rings in his ears and he halts entirely. And while Ree isn't the easiest horse to spook, the brute halts too, close to mirroring his master's movement. 

It becomes extremely quiet for a long while. Micah breathes heavily and watches the other with a mix of anticipation and horror as he lowers his revolver. 

"Did you just… fucking _shoot_ at my head?" the man finally asks without turning around. 

Micah swallows. "Nah-uh. I aimed for your _hat_."

He is playing with fire and he knows it. He could have killed his father just now but he truly doesn't care. 

"I'm _not_ useless. I'm sick of you saying things like that to me." 

He doesn't know where his courage comes from but he hopes with all his heart that he's managed to prove at least half a point to his father.

"So. What _will_ you be useful for, then? Being a killer? 'Cause that's how close you were at becoming one just now. And if that's what you fucking want, I'll teach you how to become one. Oh-ho-oh, I give you my word."

His father hasn't turned around yet but he glances over his shoulder at him. "Well. Aren't that what _you_ are? A killer," the kid challenges and feels suddenly empowered by the control he thinks he has, bringing up a subject he wasn't allowed to speak of. And on top of all that, he adds, "didn't _you_ try to kill _your_ father once?"

The man nods slowly to himself with a lowered head, hand on hip. "Huh." One could almost believe he was impressed. 

Micah waits for him to say something more but it never comes. Instead, his father turns around and whatever self confidence Micah briefly had vanishes when he sees the look in the man's now colorless eyes. 

How foolish he was. 

Micah gets a lot further than he would have guessed when he is practically tackled to the ground by his father, having been chased for a couple of hundred yards before it happens. He gets a good grip of Micah’s blonde locks and pulls back roughly, dragging him inside the house with Micah swatting and doing his best to escape. He keeps forgetting how strong his father is despite being pretty lean built and he longs for the day he will be equally as strong. It is no point now, so when they get to the kitchen, he simply stops resisting. 

"You know how this goes Micah, but you still don't know when to keep your mouth _shut_ , do you? Do you?!" The man yanks with his hand, almost ripping the hair off of the kid's head. "You shouldn't have mentioned them, boy…" His voice was trembling violently now. "I swear, the day will come when you say the wrong things to the wrong men. And they won't be so _kind_ as I am." 

The kid is pushed down against a sturdy table built of solid oak. He pants through his teeth at the painful blow from the edge of the table to his stomach, losing the air in his lungs for a few seconds. 

"Well you know what's coming, so get on with it!" his father growls at him, his voice turning so gruff from its usual self even his own son doubts it's him at first. 

As Micah is dropping his pants, his father pulls out his belt and instantly starts to whip him at his backside. 

He doesn't want to, but he can't help but scream out loud with each excruciating strike. 

^^^

"How many did he give you?" 

"What?" 

"Whips," Amos says quietly as if he doesn't want to utter the word. 

"Fifteen. Fifteen rough ones. Five for my poor aim. Five for talking back. Ten for almost killing him. But he only dealt out five of the last ones 'cause of the fact I didn't kill him." Micah snorts after the last sentence. 

Amos gives a sad smile to him. "It was pretty stupid of you, bringing up grandpa like that. He doesn't like it."

"It felt good at the time. I wanted to make him mad." 

Amos smile dies out, briefly thinking that the older boy had done a fairly good job. 

"It felt even better when I took that shot though… He sure wasn't expecting that.. You should try it too some time." 

Amos frowns at him from under his too big hat. "Shoot at him? Why?" 

"Not shoot him." Micah looks down at the small rock he holds in his hand, weighing it. He throws it far off in the creek that runs by them where they are sitting. "But fight back. You're always trying to uh, _please_ him."

"And get whipped."

Micah gives a brilliant smile. "And get whipped indeed."

Amos shakes his head with suspicion and looks away from his older brother. He doesn't understand him half of the time but he loves him anyway. The same went for his father. He couldn't even count the scars afflicted by the man but even vile acts as those were forgiven by the child. Unconditional love would do that to some. "I've got my own way of doing that," Amos says as a matter of fact, thinking about his own battle with their father. 

"And how's that working out for ya, Ame?" Micah asks with sarcasm. "I'm real curious. I mean… How does one fight back if they're afraid of fights? Hm?" 

Amos wishes he had the answer to that. But he doesn't. He looks away again and keeps quiet. When Micah watches his brother's uncertain face, he decides not to press on and so they both share the silence for roughly a minute. 

Micah sighs deeply to himself as wishful thinking and reality collide, knowing that his talk about defying their father is bullshit. It wouldn't keep for long and he knows it. It just felt good to stand up for oneself for once and he acted on it. It was foolish to turn this something bigger than what it was. He shakes his head almost violently. "Know what? Forget what I said… 'bout fighting back and all that," he waves off somberly, not wanting to plant ideas of that kind into Amos' mind. Believing that the man would find out about it in some way and punish _both_ of them. "Because it's stupid," Micah continues for Amos' own good. "You'll do what the man tells you to do, whether you like it or not. You can't go on hiding from that no more. What I did today…it ain't worth it."

Amos focuses his eyes on a couple of ants carrying one of their own, dead of course, as the creatures pass where one of his feet rests. He always wondered what they did with a fallen friend. Wondered what their father would do if one of them _fell_. 

"Did you hear what I said?" the older asks, annoyed that Amos had a tendency of drifting away. 

"I heard you," Amos assures. He never stopped listening, even if it seemed like it. "But I don't want to."

Micah shakes his head again but quicker this time, narrowing his eyes in disbelief. "When are you gonna figure it out, kid? This isn't about what we want. It's about what is _needed-_ "

"...to survive. Yeah I know..." Amos had a thousands of other things he wanted to answer, but he could never find the right words or the courage to do so. "That's what he says."

"And you should start listening, unless you want a whipping of your own."

"About that…When I was out here… I, I could hear your screams from a mile away…" Amos admits carefully, referring to when he was out and picking some berries and mushrooms for them to eat. Things that Micah didn't enjoy half as much as he did. "I…I _wanted_ to go back and help but-"

"But you didn't," Micah interrupts and gives a single shrug of his shoulder.

Amos lowers his head. "I just couldn't. I… I froze," he admits with shame and an apologetic look. 

Micah gives some thought to his next words. At first he wants to say that it's because Amos is a godforsaken little coward. But he doesn't. Because much like Amos, Micah loves his brother too. "And how many times have I stopped him from teaching _you_ a lesson, huh? That's right; _zero_. So don't think of it. You did the right thing…"

Micah tells himself he only says these things because he can't stand the kid being regretful, because in turn - it irritates _him_. So he tries to lift some of that guilt from the kid's shoulders for both their sakes. 

"I'm sorry, Micah," Amos offers anyways. 

"The man don't want us to apologize for nothing. Says it's a weakness so you better stop before it becomes a habit."

Amos is in conflict with his bad conscience and the way he is supposed to act. It doesn't feel right, but that's how both Micah and their father say how it is, so it must be right. Maybe someday, it will all make sense. 

They don't speak for some time, but none of them wants to continue on the same track, so Amos brings up an entirely new subject out of the blue. "Um, what do you think that place was? Before?" he asks his older brother, referring to the abandoned place they were staying at. 

"Ranch, I reckon. Looks like they had everything they needed too, back in the days. I bet it was a real fine ranch before the war. Now, it's all debris and dust."

"What happened to the people that lived there? Do you think they are _dead?"_

"I don't know. No one knows what happened to them. Or maybe they're still there but we just can't see them."

"You mean like… _ghosts…_?" 

Micah smirks to himself. "Yes." He doesn't believe in things like that but he knows his brother have superstitious tendencies. "Like ghosts."

Amos eyes widen, becoming two perfect circles. "That's spooky." He looks genuinely uncomfortable with the idea but Micah waves it off by giving a 'pfft'. 

"What if they're mad at me for sleeping in their bed?" Amos continues, sounding concerned. 

"I know I would be." 

"C'mon Micah… that's not funny…" The child fumbles with his hands by the uncomfortable comment, becoming irrationally afraid. "Will you sleep next to me tonight? Please?" 

Micah gives an equally sad and meaningful look to his younger brother, letting him know that it wasn't an option. "You'll manage… Besides..." The older kid lifts himself up mid-sentence and clears off the dust he'd been sitting in, his backside paining intensely to the touch. "...it's only for one more night. He says we leave tomorrow."

"Where to?" 

"Don't know, Amos. North or west I reckon… Some pieces you have to put together yourself, you know?" 

Amos shrugs a shoulder. 

"Has he _ever_ told us where exactly we're going or why?" 

"...no…" 

"That's right, so quit asking the exact same question every damn time. It's getting annoying."

Amos sighs. "But why can't we stay here? We can make it a good ranch again."

Micah wants to say that it didn't work out so well last time but he remembers that Amos was probably too young to remember it. He realised that some memories - they didn't even share. "Do you have any idea about the amount of work and time it would take to get a place in that condition going again? And money?" 

"Well… Able to work. Time. Money. Isn't that all we got?" He uses his fingers to count the three things. 

Micah places a hands on his hip but can't help but smile a little at the younger child's naivete. At least he seems happy by the thought of it. 

"We should have a place to call home," Amos continues with just as much hope in his voice. "You, me and pa. We can just stay here. Maybe he could be happy then."

"That's not how it works, Amos. Best if you forget that dream of yours 'cause it ain't happening… Not anytime soon at least."

Amos stands up in a haste. "Why not?" he questions with stubbornness, crossing his arms. 

"Why _not? Because_."

"That's not a very good answer." 

"Well it ain't a good question to begin with." Micah yanks down the brim of Amos' hat so it covers his whole face. The younger lets out an irritated and childish growl as he swats Micah’s hand away. He readjusts his hat and is all red-faced. 

Micah laughs at him. He then cocks his head to the way they came from. "C'mon, we best head back to the house. He don't like it when we wander off too far."

"He ain't even here."

"I know. But he will be soon. C'mon."

The blonde man disappeared at times but never for more than a day. He never said exactly where he was going or for how long he would be gone. 

At times, Micah wished he wouldn't be back at all. 

^^^

They ride north for a day until they end up in the town of Coleshill. It's bigger than the last town and feels more alive than most of the places they had passed through. Amos is in awe with how many children there are running around. He greets each one from the horse he rides on. 

"We're not here to make friends, boy," the blonde man says as to discourage his son from doing so. "They're dirty little troublemakers, up to no good, and you'd be wise to stay away from 'em unless you wanna have your pockets picked."

"How can you tell?" Micah asks, wanting to learn every little thing their father knew. 

"I've seen the type. Trust me. In a town like this, most of the boys you see are sons of whore mothers who couldn't raise 'em better so they teach them how to steal instead. Probably rob their customers clean while their mothers have a little go-round."

Micah wonders if his father speaks from experience and in that case, from whose. The children's or the customers'? As far as Micah knew, his father had never paid for the company of any woman of the night. 

But even so, the man had started speaking about working girls more in general and had told him more and more details about what one did with one.

Micah hadn't even touched a girl before and he didn't give it much thought either at first. The way his father spoke of them, calling them 'fragile and helpless little things' made Micah hesitate immediately. The man didn't mean that one should be careful with them but what he meant was that they were far weaker to survive on their own. They needed a man to take care of them and if they couldn't find one, then they needed several. And that's how they became whores. It was as simple as that and at first Micah didn't know why he himself one day had to get involved with women to begin with, if they were as foul creatures as the man described them to be. 

But the more he learned about what women could do that no one else could, his curiosity was awaken. Suddenly, he found himself wondering about the time he would find out for himself what they had to offer. 

"It ain't someone's lucky day…" the man murmurs, pulling Micah back from his thoughts. He looks in the direction his father nods. 

They ride in a walk through the muddy streets still on their horses and people are hurrying with quick steps to the center of town. Some kind of commotion or happening draws them there. 

As they get closer, Amos can see both doleful and pleased expressions on the faces of the people in the crowd that has formed around a wooden platform. 

It is clear what is about to happen and he sighs internally. It wasn't a view he preferred to have. He sees the people, men and women, even children sitting on fathers' shoulders as to not miss a thing. 

They move slowly behind the gathering that must consist of at least fifty to sixty persons. His father turns Ree to a halt, making his boys do the same. 

"Shouldn't we find a place to stay for the night?" Amos asks any of the two that are willing to listen. 

His brother deals out a particularly sharp look from over his shoulder. "And miss all the fun?" he asks with a raised brow. "Nah, Amos. It can wai-"

"Now what did I tell you about names, boy?" their father spits out. 

"Sorry, sir," Micah apologizes and curses internally for doing exactly what he told Amos _not_ to do only a day prior. 

Suddenly, the crowd goes wild, starting to scream ugly things as a man is brought up to the scaffold. 

_"Thief!"_

_"Burn in hell!"_

_"Goodfernuthin' low life!"_

The words blend into each other. 

"Oh my," their father says with a short chuckle as he looks around at the screaming crowd. "These folks don't seem so fond in that feller. He must have done something _very_ naughty."

This wasn't the first hanging Micah would witness and it wouldn't be his last. It was the same for Amos, but the younger never did find any pleasure in attending one. 

As soon as everyone had settled, the lawman starts to read the counts of crime the man had been committing to end up there. 

Micah doesn't recognize the man's face or name from any wanted posters. But it wasn't too odd either, with them being constantly on the move to new territories. 

The tied man has coal black hair and a dark mustache with a laid back smile from lips underneath. He's thin but tall, with a broad frame. Micah sees an undeniable strength in the man's cold blue eyes. There is no fear in them. He almost looks pleased with the situation. 

"...the unlawful taking of liquor goods, the unlawful taking of supplies to be delivered to the General store... Three hundred dollars in possession were collected upon arrest, no doubt stolen...! Two counts of killings, both of the victims bounty hunters operating in this county, three counts of assault of the deputies and the Sheriff upon arre-" 

"Spare me the preaching, please, Mr. 'Hangman _.'_ I know what I'm here for, so why won't you just get on with it? I know my luck's run out… why rub it in my face, huh?" 

Micah raises one of his brows as the soon-to-be-dead man opens his mouth. Unlike any other man, this one doesn't beg for his life or cries out he's innocent like they often do. And unless he's got a friend nearby to take out the lawmen or shoot the rope, nothing can save him. He knows this. And he chooses to God damn _hurry it up_. 

The lawman does not look satisfied with the man interrupting him. He clears his throat and continues, wrapping things up like the man asks of him. "You are found guilty of all charges and are sentenced to death by hanging… Any last words?" 

For a few moments, the man lowers his head and takes his time to think about it. Not a single person speaks up and Micah furrows his brows deeply as it feels like an eternity before the man raises his head again and shares his last words. 

"Whatever you do, don't end up like me." He shakes his head and swallows. "Do better." Then he smiles. It is more subtle than before and his gaze lingers at one spot in the middle of the gathering. 

Micah looks around the crowd as some start to laugh. Another few people mumble with confused looks on their faces, uncomfortable with the advice coming from a thief and murdering outlaw. 

The lawman gives a nod to his fellow man, who proceeds by putting the black hood over the sentenced man's head. Then comes the hemp rope around his neck and the noose is tightened to perfection. The same lawman then backs away to pull the lever. 

Amos feels unsettled as he hears the snap of the thief's neck less than a second later. The man is killed instantly and his body sways slowly in the air, his feet twitching a couple of times. 

Micah briefly becomes a bit humored by the few that clap their hands after the successful execution. 

"No Texas cake walk today," the blonde sighs out. "Not all are so lucky as this one."

"What's a 'Texas cake walk?' " the youngest boy asks his father. 

"That's when the neck don't break and they dance around with their feet in the air. Strangling," his brother answers absently without tearing his searching eyes away from the dispersing crowd.

The blonde man smirks at his oldest quick answer. "Correct. And I've seen it happen a lot of times, before they, uhm, _got the proper hang of it."_ He chuckles lowly at his own pun but Amos seems uncomfortable by it. 

Micah finds the man's very last words to be odd and by mere curiosity he wonders if they had been directed to a certain someone in the crowd, and in that case, who? So his eyes keep searching. 

Their father tells Amos about the different details of a successful hanging and the kid is noticeably shocked when he learns of all the things that could go horribly wrong if certain rules weren't followed. 

Micah was hearing them but not listening. He is about to turn his head away from the direction of the scaffold as he sees a child still standing in front of it as the rest of the people had dispersed. The boy was looking directly at the executed man, his hand closed to a fist at his side while the other hand was holding a hat. 

Micah believes the boy is crying at first but he raises his chin as the child spits at the ground in front of the scaffold. The child speaks but Micah can't make out the words from this distance. The child throws the hat to the ground and leaves it there. 

Amos and his father are still in a conversation but Micah doesn't hear them now as the child turns around and briefly looks his way. Then the child halts, looking down at his feet for a long while. Then he goes back to collect the hat he had left behind only to hurry away from the area. He seems to be in Amos' age. His eyes light up just as cold blue as the dead man's, and he's got a bad looking black eye on his left. 

Micah wonders lightly what will become of him as the child disappears out of sight.


	3. To steal from children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amos' conscience is weighted as he and Micah are assigned a low-risk job by their father. Meanwhile, Micah is intrigued by a new encounter.

It is somewhat foreign for Micah to take a bath and he briefly decides before he steps into the tub that it is a luxury he didn't crave. 

He couldn't remember last time he had washed himself _this_ properly and it wasn't strange, considering not every town provided these sorts of services. 

He knew he had taken a swim by a lake a week back back but other than that, he would be happy enough if they had water to drink. 

There had been a few long dry months this summer but the heat didn't bother him. His father said they had cold blood running through their veins and he guessed that was true as he noticed how few boys walked around with a coat on in the hot weather like himself. 

Micah frowns as he smells the fresh scent that comes from the water. He rubs and scrubs his body quickly and the water becomes a grayish shade in an instant. 

His father had said that he and his brother needed new clothes. Amos had grown out of his and Micah’s were full of rips and holes, and he guessed they smelled pretty bad too. So he agrees to wash up properly before putting on the new shirt and pants. 

He doesn't buy anything fancy but for once it feels good to wear clothes that were his own and not stolen from some poor bastard's clothesline. 

When he's done he finds Amos. 

"Look Micah!" Amos shows off his new clothes with a form of pride and Micah gives a single nod. 

"Looks better than before, I guess." 

"And I smell good too!" The younger smells at the skin of his arm and Micah gives half a smile. 

"Boys." 

Their moment of joy over their new clothes is cut short as their father makes his presence known. 

Micah is not surprised to see that the man has made little to no changes to his appearance. It was clear the man had washed himself up but he still wore the same torn clothes he'd had for a very long while. He even kept the same faded gray hat, despite there being a hole in it from Micah’s bullet. 

Micah always thought that, beneath all that grime and raggedy clothing, his father's face was handsome. Micah didn't know the exact age of the man, but he knew he wasn't as old and bitter as he acted to be. He suspected him to be in his early thirties. He remembers how the man had looked before but the most changes that had happened weren't in his looks, it was in his ways.

"Whenever the two of you is finished with your giggling, we got a place I want us to take a look at." The man doesn't want any comments and makes it clear as he turns around and doesn't bother to wait for them. 

Micah and Amos catches up with the man and together they walk through the big town. 

"Was a long time ago I had such nice clothes as these, is all," Amos explains. "I just got happy…sir."

Micah rolls his eyes at his brother's attempt to be on their father's good side, the boy rarely tried to start unnecessary fights. 

"Happy about clothes…" Micah the elder merely huffs. "If you were so displeased with your old ones, why didn't you get up on your ass and got yourselves new ones yourself? Ain't that hard."

Amos swallows and wants to answer that they hadn't passed a store that sold clothes his size or that he didn't like to steal. He doesn't say any of these things. Micah shrugs a shoulder to him, showing he's not going to interfere. 

"Hm. Thought so," the man says more to himself when Amos doesn't answer. The kid lowers his head and doesn't say much for a while. 

They pass by a few people on their way and their father greets them all with a tip of his hat, looking like any decent man apart from his clothes. 

Neither Micah nor Amos ask where they are headed to, knowing that the man seldom made his plans known until they got to their destination. 

The blonde turns at a corner and slows down, then he leans his side against the west wall of the town's gun shop. "You see that church behind me?" he asks after he's made sure no one is close enough to hear him but them. 

"I see it. Time for good ol' wash-away-thy-sins?" Micah jokes dryly and earns an instant slap to the side of his head from his father's palm. 

Amos almost jumps by the sudden sound. 

Micah refuses to acknowledge the pain that lingers on his skull but a small twitch of his eye can be seen. 

The blonde man looks at his oldest with an unimpressed look at the same time. "No. Don't be _ridiculous_ …" His eyes turns paler. "Well, you see that building that connects to the church?" the man asks without looking at it himself, his back still turned to it. 

Micah and Amos look at the direction, squinting their eyes as the bright sun reflects in one of the windows. 

"That's an orphanage that the so called women of God is taking care of. I've been hearing around town and if one wants to make a donation, they've got a box in the church to put your coins and bills in."

The blonde stops speaking and waits for his kids' reactions. Micah knows it's a test but doesn't warn his brother. He needs to learn too. 

Amos is suspicious at first but searches in his pockets for a few coins when the man doesn't explain further. "I don't need these. They can have them if it helps," he offers with a smile too kind for his own good. 

Micah blinks and looks away from the man. 

Amos still smiles happily but becomes confused by his father's still expression. "What's wrong?" he wonders out loud and darts his eyes between his brother and father. 

Micah looks from the corner of his eye at the man that still doesn't answer. At moments like these, he is happy to have his long locks to hide his eyes behind. He can feel the tension that Amos doesn't understand and he can't help but feel annoyed but also a bit sorry for the kid. 

"What, pa, what?" the kid tries. 

"We're not…" Micah sighs, earning attention from his father. "...making any donations here." He gives a hard look to his younger brother. "You understand?" 

Amos gaze sinks down to the dusty ground as he realises. "No…" he says quietly. "It ain't right."

Micah takes a few steps away from them and rearranges the hat on his head. He sighs deeply as he eyes the orphanage. A couple of scrawny kids were running around happy looking and playing in the dried out garden that grew inside the fence.

"You know…I've never been fond of the holy church. They often speak 'bout wolves in sheep's clothing. If that is so, then I believe they're the goddamn wolf pack." 

It is true, Micah thinks. Their father despised the church, the priests and nuns. The whole concept of religion, hating God as well. 

"...and whenever I asked 'our' lord and savior for help, he never answered, not even once. So why should I care 'bout what's right or wrong. Why should _you_ , hm? Them children probably don't get a penny of that money anywa-" 

He quiets down as a man passes them by and he and Amos look at each other with some form of inner battle with one another. 

"How can you be so sure?" Amos hisses with a noticeable defiance as they can speak up again. 

"Are you questioning me? Is that what you're doing?" Micah the elder asks in a dangerous but calm tone. "You've been doing it an awfully lot lately. Perhaps a _lesson_ is in order? A longer session this time," he threats. 

Micah can hear his brother's frustration and he just knows that if he turns around, he would see Amos' pleading look for support.

It seems that staying on father's best side isn't as important for the kid anymore. Not when it comes to stealing from children of God. 

"Wh-what about the stores or that saloon over there? The, the…the drugstore?" Amos tries. 

"Too many witnesses, too many hidden guns. Too risky. Besides… Now is the time you can really do your part." Micah the elder presses a finger to Amos' chest for emphasis, making the boy steady his steps. " 'Cause I think you've been avoiding it one too many times."

Amos looks at him with a concerned frown. Micah shakes his head to himself. Things always turns out like their father wants, with their help or without. He knows this and Amos _should_ know it too by now. Now, he only wishes Amos could be a faster learner. 

Eventually, Amos realises that Micah wasn't going to support him in any way and that his father wouldn't take no for an answer this time. But what frightens him the most is the promise of another beating, unless he did his part. "Fine…" That single word seems the hardest of all for him to utter. "Fine." 

"Atta boy." Micah the elder gives half a smile to his youngest and he whistles for Micah to come over to them again. 

He reluctantly does and listen to the details. 

^^^

They wait a few days until they set the plan into motion. During these days, a little bit of scouting is enough to learn that the donation box was put away in a locked room among other things when evening came. 

Micah the elder had decided that the two boys were on their own on this one and he would wait across town, observing the church from his spot. It was about time they acted on their own. 

Micah and Amos sneaks inside through a window and keep themselves hidden in the shadows. The only source of light comes from the many candles spread around in the otherwise dark and empty nave of the church. 

It is dead quiet but Micah knows there are souls sleeping and they still needed to stay quiet to not get discovered. 

"Follow me," Micah mouths and stands up. He treads carefully through the nave until they find a door to the left of the altar. 

It creaks slightly as they open it and Micah grimaces by the sound. They stop entirely and listen to any possible movement but hear none. 

Behind the door is a corridor that goes straight to the right and continued forward. Halfway, it turns to both left and right, making the corridor cross shaped. On the left corridor are several doors next to each other and they both guess it must be the cells where the sisters sleep as they hear snores and deep breaths after pressing their ears to the doors. 

Micah goes back to the opposite corridor instead, ignoring the forward area altogether, since that's where the orphanage is located. A lone door is at the end of the right corridor. 

"Must be here."

He lowers himself to his knees in front of it. "Want to give it a go?" he offers his brother. 

Amos shakes his head and steps back from the door. "Nah. Go ahead."

"How will you learn if you don't ever try?" the older questions. 

"I just want to get out of here…" 

The older rolls his eyes. "Fine."

Micah starts to pry the lock open but he hadn't done it enough times to be as fast as their father. 

Amos heads back to where the corridor parts three ways and keeps watch. He feels anxious and wishes Micah could hurry it up. 

"Cakewalk," Micah suddenly whispers as the task is successful. He opens the door slowly and lights a match as he steps into the storage room of riches. He lights a candle that lies on one of the shelves and starts to look around. 

Amos is about to go and help Micah when he suddenly hears a distant creaking sound. He freezes and tries to locate where it comes from. He expects the door that leads to the main area of the church to open any second but it never happens.

"Hey," Micah calls when Amos wanders off too far for his liking. 

The younger of the two doesn't hear the sound again and he can't hear any steps either. Amos hurries back to his brother. "I thought I heard something. I can swear it came from that altar room."

Micah looks at him in disbelief. "That place was empty when we passed it. But let's hurry up then, just in case. If someone's there… well, too bad for _them_." He taps at his gun a few times.

Amos opens the bag he'd brought and reluctantly helps his brother to fill it. They empty the donation box more slowly as the coins cause noises they didn't need. Their father had told them to take whatever was worth taking but other than the money, there wasn't much. No so called riches in sight. This made even Micah feel a slight pang of guilt. 

They sneak back through the corridor and Micah opens the door carefully. He looks at the altar and to the right to scan the entire area. No one is to be seen and he motions his brother to follow. 

Micah examines the main door from the inside but a key is needed and the faster they were on their way, the better. So they head for the window they had gone in through and Amos climbs quietly through it, jumping down the small drop from it. 

"Here." Micah hands the bag to Amos. "Go straight to him, don't wait for me." 

"Micah."

"Go, get the money out of here. I'll be right behind you."

The younger backs a few steps but then hurries away without more questioning. 

Micah lifts one leg and is prepared to head out as he hears a creaking sound accompanied by subtle movement that could easily be missed if he hadn't paid attention. 

He pauses and looks behind him within the second. He manages to see a foot pull out of sight behind one of the many benches in the room. 

Very slowly, he moves back his leg and pulls his patterned yellow and brown bandana further up over his face. "I saw you." Micah rests a hand on his revolver as he slowly walks over to the hiding spot of the sitting silhouette. 

Micah smirks to himself just before he quickly looks around the corner of the bench. To his surprise, no one is there. 

A candle flickers closer to the altar and he hurries with swift steps over to that direction.

"Come out and I won't hurt you." 

He realises that whoever is hiding must have been the one to have opened the window in the first place and if so, must have seen what they've done and even heard their names, at least Micah’s, being spoken. 

Now, he just needed to make sure that whoever was here, wasn't gonna go and fetch the law anytime soon. 

Micah walks sideways and inspects between every row of benches that's spread out in two parts of the room, to the left and to the right with a pathway between them in the center. He almost misses the small figure that quickly crawls away from him on the floor, trying his best to stay quiet. 

"Found you, kid." 

When the figure knows he is spotted, he tries to make a run for it by getting up on his feet but Micah has the advantage and practically jumps over one of the benches in order to get to him. It causes some noise and he hopes sincerely that it's not enough to wake anyone up. 

He gets a good grip on the back of the kid's shirt and pulls him back just as the kid shoots forward and away from him. This makes Micah jerk forward and the kid to get a good snap to his throat, causing him to almost fall backwards entirely. 

"Whoa…! Eeeeeasy," Micah whispers and chuckles. "Don't want to wake the sisters up now, do we? I thought someone had snuck _in_ , but you're trying to sneak _out_ , is that it?" 

The kid doesn't say anything but he lets out a few heavy grunts from his efforts of breaking free. Micah takes a hold of both of the kid's wrists since he is swatting like crazy and trying to claw at him. 

He twists the boy around so they are at least facing each other. His eyes become bigger. "Haven't I seen you before?" Micah asks as he manages to still the kid for a couple of seconds, catching a better look at the figure's face. He had a good memory with faces. "The other day. By the gallows when they hung whatshisface… Yeah, that was you alright… So what, you live here?"

"Let. Me. Go!" the kid demands through gritted teeth, completely wild and eyes filled with a fire that Micah almost becomes impressed by. 

"Jeee-sus. Calm down…!" Micah hisses and tightens his grip, handling out a few shakes to the kid. "Quiet…!"

The kid practically starts to roar at him and Micah quickly swings the kid around in order to hold his both hands in one of his own so he can place his other hand over the kid's mouth. " _Shut._ _Up_. I'm not asking you again," he whispers angrily into the kid's ear and gives a full shake for emphasis, even rougher this time. He twists them around to their left to look at the door by the side of the altar and listens for any sound. The kid breathes rapidly and is surprisingly strong for his age, the way he is squirming against Micah’s chest. 

"Now now. Not gonna hurt ya. Unless… _unless_ you give me a reason to." 

The kid stops struggling but is still tense and it's impossible for Micah to predict his next movement so he decides it's best to not loosen his grip. 

Micah speaks with a very strained voice. "Good. Now…if the sisters in the morning ask you children if you saw something, the other orphans will answer that _'no, ma'am we did not see or hear anything.'_ And my advice to you is you answer the same as your friends."

"Threnotmafrens."

Micah can't hear what the kid says. "I'm gonna lift my hand away but I swear to God almighty, my six shooter will come in handy if you start screaming. Understand me?" 

The kid nods. 

Micah slowly lifts his hand away from the child's mouth. 

"I _said_ , they're not my friends. I don't live here, if that's what you think."

"So you _did_ sneak in? What the hell for?" 

The kid doesn't want to answer at first but Micah tightens his grip, using both hands again. The kid doesn't appreciate being held in place, that much is clear as he continues squirming again. The kid murmurs. "I hid inside during the day…was gonna climb out that window when I saw the two of you coming… I just wanted to see if I could find some food but all the doors were locked… And there's nothing else to it… I haven't done anything wrong…!" 

Micah looks down at the head of the child. He hadn't gotten a proper look at Micah the way he was attacking at first and it was for the best. The less the boy saw of him, the less he could tell the law. But something in Micah was sure that this kid would never tell a soul about him and Amos, given the little history he knew of the kid. 

"You heard my name…" It is a fact they both know. "You know why we're here?" 

"Yeah. I overheard. And I know that whatever was in that bag ain't yours."

Micah gives the fast and seemingly sincere answer some thought and decides to follow his instinct. "The way I see it, you're no stranger to those sorts of things, are you? Given your poor daddy's line of work. 'Cause it _was_ your daddy that hung that day, right?"

This made whatever self control the child had found, to lose it entirely. He once more started growling and tries to break free, almost successfully this time. 

But whatever force he tries to bring forth, Micah is simply older and therefore stronger. 

Micah roughly slaps at the side of the younger kid's head as a warning as he awkwardly tries to keep him in place with the other hand like before, one hand around the other's two wrists.

"You're _testing_ the last of my patience here. Calm the hell down…!"

It takes longer for the kid to do so this time but when he realises there is no point in fighting back, he relaxes again after a minute had passed, out of breath by the exertion. 

"I haven't seen anything… Alright? Just fucking let go of me… " he finally pants out. 

Micah tuts him. "Such foul language, kiddo. Even my brother's got better manners." 

"The hell you called me? Ain't some kid!"

"Nah, you're a goddamn animal, is what you are," Micah says and swears too. "I like it. But unfortunately, I can't keep you. My leader says we don't need a dog."

The kid huffs at the insult that is mixed with praise. 

Micah lets go of the kid and the latter instantly hurries away from him to press his back against one of the walls, facing him. 

He observes the older that now walks over to the window, lifting his leg up again to prepare and climb out. "But then again, I think he'll make an exception this time." 

The kid doesn't understand and his face gives as much away. 

Micah raises a brow and now unholster his revolver, aiming it directly at the kid. "You've seen me, know my name. Know what I've done here. Personally, I would have let you go, but my leader wouldn't, so you're coming with me, kid."

The words take the boy by surprise and his eyes dart at all directions at the suggestion. "I'm _not."_

"Oh but you _are._ You haven't got a choice here."

The child crosses his arms and Micah rolls his eyes, knowing all too well what that gesture means. 

"Shoot me then. 'Cause I won't come with you."

"Aaaahh." Micah sighs deeply. It's not like he wanted the kid to come with but he knows that his father is the one to decide what they should do with him. He remembers that the boy had after all seen all their faces that day of the hanging, if the child even remembers them. And it was no doubt he was all alone and probably hungry. What could possibly stop him from going to the Sheriff's tomorrow and tell them about this incident in exchange for some money or a plate of food? It wasn't up to Micah to decide on this one. 

Micah half sits on the window sill and offers a big smile to the other, aiming gun still in hand. "C'mon. Don't be an idiot. You're just a kid. You think you'll manage out there on your own?"

"You're just a kid too. And I know how to manage. Even know how to shoot a gun fine. I just have to get a hold of one first."

"I'm fourteen, how old are you? _Eight_ _?"_ Micah asks mockingly. "Besides, I'm not alone like you, so my chance of survival is far better than yours. And frankly, I'm surprised you've lasted three days on your own." 

"I'm eleven…! And if I had a gun right now, you'd be lying bleeding on the floor. 'Cause I know how to take care of myself."

This makes Micah laugh fully under his mask. "Are you tough or are just _acting_ tough, kid? I can't tell." 

The child doesn't answer which perhaps is the smartest thing to do in his situation.

Micah’s covered but taunting smile spreads all the way up to his eyes as they look at each other. "Oh well. I can't force you to come with me, I guess. And I don't want to shoot some _eight year old_ in a church." 

The child noticeably grits his teeth.

Micah sighs again, this time exaggerated. "I don't have time for this. And I don't care where the hell you'll end up, so good luck on your journey. You'll be dead within a week so enjoy it while it lasts." Micah starts climbing out and jumps down the window, certain that the kid would come around. 

The boy is speechless as the other kid just leaves. For perhaps half a minute or more, he just stands with his back still pressed to the wall, unable to make sense of this strange encounter. It is impossible to know for sure what risks he would be taking if he followed the other boy. Impossible to tell if he had thrown away his only chance of survival. He was sure he could manage, but not without a gun, and that boy had a gun. 

He hurries to the window and looks after the older kid that still walks through the darkness outside, far slower than is necessary. It doesn't take many seconds before he climbs out after him. 

"Wait."

Micah stops in his steps and smiles to himself a second before turning around. "Yes?" 

"Who are you? You mentioned a leader… So...so who are you? You run with a gang or somethin'?" 

Micah doesn't blame the kid for his self preservation, it is wise to have one's survival at interest. "No. It's just me, my brother and our dear father. He's not… the _best_ of men, but yours didn't seem to be one neither." He gestures at his own eye, referring to the now yellow and fading black eye the other kid have. 

Micah expects the kid to lash out again but he doesn't. It almost looks like he had heard something of importance instead.

"Okay…" the kid finally answers, without demanding any more questions answered. He would take his chances with this boy for now, perhaps it could prove useful to what he needed. "Okay." He nods, sounding more certain this time. 

"Ooo-kay. Follow me then." Micah cocks his head to where they were off to and the kid settles with walking behind him, guard still up. "Say, kid, I never asked what your name was," the blonde asks without breaking out of his walk forward and without a glance at the boy. 

The child doesn't answer at first, probably unable to decide what of honesty or anonymous safety is more important. The first prevails. "Arthur." 

"Just Arthur or anything else?"

"Just Arthur. For now." 

Micah rolls his eyes. "Nice to meet you, Arthur No-name. I'm Micah Bell. _The third_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all are doing okay amidst the current chaos of this world. Stay safe, everyone.


	4. Bell or Morgan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To his brother, Micah shares his distant memories of a past family member. An open minded Micah Bell Jr. decides to have another talk with the new boy.

"Schh…schh…"

Micah instinctively pulls his brother closer where they lie on their bedrolls closely aligned on the dry ground. 

"Bad dream, is all," the oldest of the two continues, mumbling in a half awake state. He had just managed to fall asleep when Amos had woken him up with a couple of anxious twitches. 

Tests of Amos' short hair is plastered to his forehead and he blinks awake fully by the soothing sound of Micah’s voice. It's almost pitch black outside and it takes some time before his eyes can adjust. "I dreamed of a dark haired woman." 

This causes whatever sleepiness that had a hold of Micah to quickly eradicate. "Hm?" 

Amos scoots closer to his brother so that Micah’s chest presses protectively to his back. Micah doesn't push him away but instead gently brushes his nails over the skin on Amos' arm, knowing that the touch had been a preferable way of comfort since the child had been grown enough to give away as much. It had always helped to calm the child and by now, Micah and Amos know each other more than they know themselves probably.

Amos swallows and whispers as quietly as he can. "She was on fire. I don't know who she was but at the same time like I did. I… I could see her skin loosen and curl up from the fire… And she was screaming..." 

Micah frowns deeply in worry as his eyes lingers on the back of Amos' fair head. He stops with his brushing touches and merely presses his digits over the soft skin. 

"Tell me about mother again," the youngest asks of him. 

Micah shakes his head despite the child cannot see it. "It wasn't mother that was in your dream, Ame. She didn't die like that." The oldest kid's eyes dart back and forth after he speaks, a bit too fast for it to sound certain. 

"Tell me anyways..."

The oldest kid can clearly hear their father's snoring a bit away, sleeping in a deep state for once. Micah shuts his eyes hard, trying to remember her. "She was… She smelled nice. Like… like flowers on a warm new day of spring when it has just bloomed. She had a soft voice too. And her eyes weren't as bright as _his_ , they were blue… but more like the deepest of waters..."

"Like mine?" 

A deformity as their father calls it, Amos' blue eyes are spotted with brown, a feature Micah couldn't remember he shared with her. "Not exactly."

Amos gives his next question some thought. "Did she love us?" 

Micah can't answer yes or no to that question, it was too complex to do so. "She was kind to us…and I believed… she cared for us. Very much." 

"What happened to her? How did she die?" 

"…She uh… died of sickness when you was two, that's why you don't remember her." Micah shuts his eyes even harder, half burying his face into the rolled together quilt that serves as pillow as he speaks those words. 

Micah doesn't know what he expects to hear from Amos after that. It wasn't the first time they had spoken about their mother or what happened to her. The child had asked about her a few times over the years a year or two apart, as if he expected the story to change somehow. Micah figured that it would do no one any harm to speak of her if he just kept the details to a minimum. Why Micah did so was mostly for his own sake more than anything else. It brought up feelings he didn't want to have. 

Amos didn't dive in too deep in his thoughts. He'd never known his mother and he didn't feel any sort of emotional bond to her since he had no memory of her. He didn't know what she had looked like or remembered that smell or voice that Micah claimed had belonged to her. She was just the person that had birthed him. 

He can feel his brother's warm and calm breaths to the back of his neck and he relishes in the closeness and comfort that they hadn't shared as frequently as when they were smaller. He knows he really shouldn't have moved his bedroll this close. They were becoming older and Micah had started to push him away because of it. As far as he knew, any embrace might be the last they'd share. Internally, he is filled with joy that Micah had not only let him get close, but also that he had done it without hesitation. 

Micah runs his fingers through Amos' short hair, remembering the first few times he had done so when the child was little. He remembers carrying him around in his arms whenever their mother was incapable or when their father wasn't present. 

In Micah’s eyes, Amos had always been the image of innocence but he was sensing it coming to an end. His transformation had already started, long before Micah was mature enough to even have these thoughts in the first place. It was always inevitable. They needed to survive and their father said that they would take care of everything getting in their way in order to achieve this. 

"His mother died of sickness too," comes a sudden whisper from Amos. 

Micah’s arm drifts over and across Amos' chest to hug him tighter. One eye observes over his brother's head at the tied-down figure lying on the ground across their small camp. 

"Said her name was Beatrice… That's a pretty name, don't you think?" 

Micah doesn't answer, keeping his gaze locked at the orphan that had managed to fall asleep, despite being hogtied in an uncomfortable position. The child had been questioned to Micah Bell Jr's. satisfaction but the man still didn't trust him enough to let him wander freely at nighttime. It was only for a few days, he had said. Only until he'd decided whether Arthur would stay with them or not. 

The child had reluctantly told them about his past after a few promises made by the blonde man, including a hunter knife and Arthur's fingers. Arthur hadn't even twitched by those threats, it was more like he decided to answer his questions more because it was easier that way. If they had to go, they had to go. 

"Hm. We don't know if he's lying or telling the truth, Ame. Keep your guard up around him." 

"But he's on his own. Why would he do anything to us? He's got no one else." 

Micah only cared for two people in the world and he wouldn't let another child, as innocent as he might seem, risk their safety. 

"That boy probably knows how to handle a gun. And I don't trust anyone with a gun. Especially not some stranger kid."

Amos gives a shrug of his shoulder. "How about giving him one anyways? See what he does… We can have one of our own ready in case he tries anything."

Micah glances down at his brother's head by his sneaky suggestion, surprised to hear it from him. "Perhaps, but more likely _no_."

When bringing Arthur with, Amos was thrilled about having another child with them. He was even more thrilled when learning that the blonde man didn't throw Arthur out the second he laid eyes on him. Micah didn't like that kind of excitement, knowing that Amos was the more naive of the two of them. But he figured only time could truly tell if Arthur would be one of them or not. 

"You should try and get some sleep. There's still a few hours till sunrise."

Amos curls up closer and readjusts his lean body to lie more comfortably. Micah on the other hand, doesn't get a second of sleep that night, keeping his eyes locked on the stranger boy until sun rises.

^^^

Arthur wakes up to a terrible ache in the shoulder he had been sleeping on, lying stiff on his side the whole night. Being tied up like this, with the rope pretty much stretched to maximum constricted his sleeping positions greatly. It was a light kick on his thigh that makes him blink his eyes open. 

"Slept well, child?" 

Arthur looks up with arched brows at the blonde man whose worn slouch hat protects his eyes from the scorching sun above. 

"It's almost noon and my boys wouldn't even dare to waste the day like that. They know better. But you will too." 

Arthur realises that the man is right as he looks up to the sky. It is almost noon. 

"You see, I figured you must be exhausted, so I let you sleep." The man squats beside him, elbows resting over his thighs and relaxed arms hanging between his legs. "But that was the first and last time you'll get the luxury." 

Arthur struggles to swallow properly, his hair dripping with sweat from the hot weather. He realises that the two of them are completely alone. The boys are nowhere to be seen. 

"You wonder where they are?" 

Arthur gives a hesitant nod. 

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with."

The child stares at the man with suspicion. 

The blonde takes off his hat and places it on the dry ground next to his feet. As in a haste he runs through his scruffy short hair that hadn't seen a comb for quite some time. "They're out. Hunting. So relax." 

Arthur isn't relaxed in the slightest. 

"Cat got your tongue?" the blonde man finally asks with a frown. "It's rude not to answer a question when it's asked."

"I've slept just fine, sir," Arthur lies, hoping that the man would be pleased with that answer, also believing that's what the man wants to hear. 

Easily so, the blonde sees right through him, a sceptical look in his impossibly blue eyes. "No one sleeps well when they're goddamn _hogtied…_ " 

His right hand pulls out a knife with a serrated blade that is the biggest Arthur has ever seen. His first instinct is to crawl away from it as fast as he can but he forces himself to lie still. 

The blonde grabs at Arthur’s dirty shirt and yanks him close as if he weighs nothing. "In this family, we are _honest_ with each other. I have no tolerance for lies or tricks or even pretending…" The man jerks his body with each sentence, looking down on him like a predator that's caught its prey. "Not even the innocent kind." 

Arthur squints his eyes as the sun burns in them. He breathes quickly through his nose as the blonde's blade brushes gently over his rapidly up and down moving chest. The sensation almost tickles and he wonders briefly if the man would take his life then and there. 

Arthur doesn't answer with words but instead gives a few quick nods as to show he understood. 

Micah Bell Jr's. lips crack out in a grin and he rolls the child over on his belly, the blade still in a tight grip next to Arthur’s body. The movement causes Arthur’s shirt to slide upwards slightly, exposing the lower part of his back and the scars that belongs to him. 

Arthur lies completely still, even when - to his surprise - relatively cold fingers brushes over his skin. 

The blonde man lets his digits explore the marks on Arthur's lower back, taking the freedom to move further up along his spine inside the shirt. To his surprise, the child's back is soft as silk. 

Had the situation been different and if the touch had been a form of fatherly affection, then Arthur might have approved the sensation. But now, he is feeling his integrity to be violated and he uncomfortably squirms under the touch. 

The blonde yanks down the hem of Arthur’s tattered pants, finding where the marks continue. He examines the scars on Arthur’s backside, realising he could just as well be a son of his. 

"Don't you touch me," Arthur finally asks of the man in a pleading manner, trying to hold back the violent feelings building up inside.

The blonde retreats his hand that had rested across Arthur's tailbone. "I see that pain is no stranger to you."

Arthur turns his head away to avoid answering, dust sticking to his sweaty face where it's pressed to the ground. 

"Good to know, kid."

It is indeed good to know. If he needed to teach a thing or two to this one, the belt is perhaps not the right way to do it. 

Arthur had forgotten all about the blade up until the blonde man cuts him free from the rope. He instantly pulls his pants the small way back up and scrambles away from the man, sitting himself against a tree. The blonde doesn't move an inch, still positioned on his knees and facing the child. 

"What's going on in that head of yours, kid?" he asks, trying to read the child. He tilts his head slightly, observing him from the corner of his eye. "You're afraid you might've made a mistake… coming along with us?"

Arthur doesn't feel afraid, but he feels concerned. His father wasn't a good man but what if this man would prove to be even worse? 

Arthur raises his chin while rubbing his sore wrists. "No."

The blonde snorts to that. "You ain't the talkative type, Arthur Morgan."

Arthur doesn't like they way the blonde man eyes him from head to toe. He feels naked and unshielded. 

"Listen… when Mikey brought you with, do you know what my first thought was to do with you?" 

The child shakes his head. 

"To put a bullet in your head," the man whispers darkly. 

The blonde's voice is monotonous and calm as he speaks. Arthur briefly thinks by then that it must be the cleanest voice he's ever heard. If it hadn't been for the words he said, he could have sounded close to angelic. 

"Then why didn't you?" the child dares to ask back without a blink of his eyes. 

The blonde man moves slowly over to him, not breaking eye contact once and his head is close to still. There is something animalistic about his face and limber movement while he does so. That's the first time Arthur feels a small wave of fear of the man, by the sheer unpleasantness he emitted. 

Arthur can feel a drop of sweat roll down his temple. It is hot for sure, but he didn't feel too good neither. Too many things had happened in only a few days and he had been forced to move on fast and readjust to his new situation, giving him no appetite to eat the few things that had been offered to him. 

Arthur doesn't even care what the man is about to do. He tells himself that whatever is waiting couldn't be any worse than what he'd already experienced in his short life. 

The blonde man stops by his side and looks the child over without laying a hand on him. Looks into his bloodshot eyes and pale skin. Arthur stubbornly refuses to avert his gaze and he stares back with as much strength as he could. From this close range he notices a rather ugly scar across the left side of the blonde's neck, only slightly covered by the black bandana he's tied around it. 

"I didn't shoot because I could see you for what you were, Arthur."

Arthur gives a simple 'hm' as question. He doesn't understand. 

"You're tough, I can sense. A survivor. And so are we. The world ain't pretty… but you? You know that already, don't you?" He gestures at his own back, referring to the scars on the boy. Arthur can almost sense the pale blue eyes burn back and forth over his face. "Yeah…course you do…" 

Arthur's gaze lowers by the man's praise that sounds threatening at the same time. 

"You see…? You belong with us, kid. Leave your past behind. That don't exist anymore. You' can be a Bell now if you want to."

Arthur presses himself harder to the trunk of the tree as Micah Bell Jr. raises a hand to pat the boy on his head before he gently checks his temperature for fever. 

He then pulls his hand back so suddenly that Arthur instinctively jerks for a second. The man inhales deeply, speaking in a sigh afterwards. "You will learn that my boys hate me… I'm sure of it. But I want what's best for 'em. To teach them to take care of themselves… All I do, I do for them."

Arthur doesn't know what to answer but he knows even less what he feels about the man from the very short time they had spent. He is impossible to read and so are his intentions. 

"And now, all I do, I can do for you as well. If you accept me as your father, I'll accept you as my son. How, aaaa-bout, it, kid?"

The child feels frozen inside as the solemn proposal leaves the man's chapped lips. He loses himself in the man's mysterious cold eyes that had turned far warmer now. He feels a desperation that he had felt a hundred times before. A desire that had never once been met. But most of all it is a hunger that is only to be _seen_ by someone. To be acknowledged. 

Arthur feels shaky by the safety he believes can be provided from this new family but as tempting it is to leave everything behind, he couldn't forget all of himself. 

"No…I… I'm Arthur Morgan. Not Arthur Bell. My father was Lyle Morgan and he's dead. My mother was Beatrice Morgan. And she's dead too."

The blonde man stares blankly at him for a few seconds too long and a pleased smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. Arthur could swear the man's eyes turns a couple of shades lighter again within a second. 

He pulls back and moves swiftly away from the child. He rises to his feet, the movement just as limber as his previous ones. "You can decide for yourself if you want to leave, or stay with us. I think you're old enough to make that decision for yourself."

Arthur doesn't know if his rejection is something he would be punished for or not but it's too late to change his mind now. He shakily lifts himself up, his body still pressed against the tree. The hunger starts to make itself known in Arthur's aching stomach by now but his thirst is even worse. His eyes closely follows the blonde man as the latter walks around the small camp they'd put up in the middle of nowhere. "In that case… I… I think I'll stay with you. For a couple of weeks at least."

The blonde man observes him quietly before giving a nod. "Fair enough..." He clears his throat. "The rules around here are simple and apply to all of you… _Nothing_ has _chaaanged_ because we got you as an addition to our small group... Everybody take care of themselves. If you're hungry - you hunt for food. If you're cold - you get your own pelt to make warmer clothes of. If you fall ill or suffer from a wound, I'll teach you how to treat it. You'll learn how to handle a gun too, practicing your aiming… shooting. You do as I say and you don't question what we do. If you're disobedient, you'll be punished accordingly and that's a goddamn promise if I ever kept one. You understand everything I just said, kid?"

Arthur nods, wiping some of his sweat off with the back of his arm. "Yes, sir…"

Micah Bell Jr. gives a genuine smile to the kid. "You'll prove useful in more ways than one, I'm sure, Arthur _Morgan_."

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

He discreetly drums his fingers over his right hand gun. "Maybe when you're older, you'll understand." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh it's so relaxing to write about these boys and it gives me life. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and sticking with this fic. Feel free to leave a comment if you enjoyed, they give me life too.


	5. Dead pups and free horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Micah and Arthur bond. Arthur learns a few things about each member of the group he finds himself with.

Arthur isn't stupid. 

He knows how to adapt. Knows when to stay quiet and when to speak. How to make oneself scarce or present. 

He knows the blonde man didn't follow the law, but that by no means made him into a feared outlaw. Thief, perhaps, but not much more. In the short time he had been with them, no crime had been committed, if he were to forget the orphanage incident. No crime in which he had witnessed at least. He could only guess what the man is up to as he disappear at times, always returning with his money pouch suspiciously heavier. 

Arthur had admitted that he knew his way around firearms but he wasn't allowed a gun on his own just yet. First, the blonde man wanted to test the boy's skills.

"You need practice and then some, but you're not unfamiliar with a gun, that much I can see," the man says to him after Arthur had hit four out of five cans. "In these times and days, it's good to know how to defend oneself." 

The most important thing for the man is for them to become strong. His two sons and the orphan. But they weren't only his boys. They were a valuable resource easy for him to form to his liking while they were still young enough. When they become older and more experienced, they could take on bigger risks with higher rewards. 

For the man, it is about what could be gained along the way. Amos and Micah know this too, but Arthur didn't, unless he hadn't figured it out already. 

When a month had passed and the two younger boys had become well acquainted with one another, Amos couldn't help but wonder if the best choice for Arthur would have been to leave after all, for his own good. But he doesn't share this thought, because so far, the blonde man and Arthur had been getting along fine. 

It seems as if the man never finds Arthur to do something wrong or not good enough. Micah the elder is patient with Arthur, unlike with his own two sons. And this stirs up a lot of confusion within the young child. 

Micah had been surprised that his father had let Arthur stay with them, also given him the choice of staying or trying his luck out on his own. He had been prepared for the man to shoot the kid on one of those days, given how he was a risk to them if let loose. Maybe he would have shot him, had Arthur declined the offer of joining them. 

Micah’s guess is that Arthur had realised it could be hard to survive on his own and therefore agreed to join them instead of leaving. Micah knows that everyone acted according to their own winning, and this is no exception. Not even for an eleven year old child. Mankind is after all a selfish species. 

Micah feels somewhat neutral about the whole ordeal. Truthfully, he didn't care if the boy die or live or disappear. He had simply become bored, and having another kid around is a refreshing change. And a third kid also means that the blonde man's focus have to part three ways, taking some of it away from Micah. 

He takes advantage of it this day, heading out on his own through the great forest they'd made camp in. One month had passed since Coleshill and them stealing from the church and they had stayed at their current location out in the wild ever since. His father had no destination in mind yet and they just took each day at a time. It had been like this for a long time. 

Micah enjoys being on his own, knowing he could have managed it in the long run too. He was getting older and he could just leave. But he wouldn't, because much like his father, he had no real plan. No true purpose yet. Staying alive is all he really needs to know and his father saw to that they learned that. Besides, running away was something he had done before as a small child, and it had ended with him half beaten to death by the hands of his father when he eventually had caught up to him. That was enough reason for Micah to not try something as foolish again. 

He had walked for an hour straight, following a stream that ran peacefully beside him. He was whistling on a tune and occasionally humming. While he does, he can suddenly hear a twig being stepped on further behind him. He keeps on whistling to himself as he discreetly guides a hand to his revolver. 

After unholstering it, he keeps a resting hand over it as he keeps on walking. He could hear more movement behind him - the sound of someone sneaking but not doing a very good job at it. 

When the sound of steps come closer he draws in the blink of an eye and twists around. He aims after the figure that jumps out of the way to take cover behind a tree. 

Micah smiles to himself but proceeds to hunker down and hide behind a big boulder. He can almost hear the kid's breathing from where he's hiding and he thinks to himself that Arthur had a lot more to learn. 

"Come out, come out, Arthur no-name. You're not as quiet as you think you are." Micah calls out and calmly presses his back against the boulder and waits for the other to give up. But he doesn't, and when it becomes completely silent, Micah raises a brow. 

"You think you'll beat me? _Please._ Your steps are louder than a hundred stampeding _buffaloes_ …" He chuckles greedily to himself. "One would think you'd be better at this, given the little outlaw that you are… Or _maybe_ your daddy didn't let you in on his homestead jobs."

Micah had found Arthur's weak spots, had known them since they first met. The kid didn't like when he spoke of his late father in any way. But it didn't bite on him today. 

A little disappointed, Micah leaves his cover and sneaks through the area, heading to where he last had heard the boy. Closing in on that very tree, he raises his gun and jumps behind it. 

Much like in the church a month back, it's like Arthur disappears out of thin air. Something about it makes Micah think that either he's lucky, or he is far more talented than he gives away. 

As he hears another twig break, he starts sprinting to that direction, certain that Arthur had made another mistake. As he pushes through bushes and closely growing branches, he has a split second to see a deer running off. 

"Goddammit… the hell is-" 

Before he knows it, he's pushed with a force that makes him trip completely. He falls on his side and as soon as he has rolled to his back, the muzzle of a gun is shoved into his face.

"I win." 

Arthur is actually smirking as he says it and Micah bites hard inside his cheek at the defeat, breathing loudly through his nose. The kid sits on his knees next to him, holding with both hands the too big gun steady. 

Micah gives a quick nod to him. "Who gave you that gun?"

"Your pa. Said I could borrow Amos' when I headed out."

"You were lucky. Hadn't that deer come out of nowhere and _distracted_ me, I would have found you first."

"What deer? Or is that your excuse for losing against me?" 

"It was there. Thought it was you, because you were being just as damn loud."

It was easy to affect Arthur. He had a short temper and acted accordingly to it. Micah on the other hand, knew how to laugh things off and attack later. But Arthur is still closer to a child than a man, so Micah brushes it off, thinking the younger child would learn to control it later on. But since he won his very first time today, Arthur seems to be in a better mood than usual. 

Arthur puts away the gun and offers a hand to Micah. The latter ignores it entirely and gets up without assistance. "Did he send you?" he asks as he brushes off his clothes. 

"Yeah. Said I needed to train with my tracking….and _sneaking_ and _-"_

"And how did that work out for you, hm?" Micah sneers. 

"Shut up, Micah. You're just angry 'cause I won."

"Oh _t-rust_ me. I'm _not_. It was the one and only time you'll win over me."

On the contrary, Micah is impressed by the kid even if he refuses to show it. Learning how to track and learning how to pay attention to one's surroundings is something the man had done for years with him and Amos. If either Amos or Micah were wandering off, he could decide to send the other to track him down. The winner was simply the one not held at gunpoint. By doing it like this, neither of the kids knew when exactly this training took place. Much like this time, it came as a surprise to Micah. 

Together, they head back for camp. Micah looks up to the sky and realises it will be dark soon and, despite him not fearing it anymore, he knows it could be dangerous in the woods at nighttime. 

"What were you doing out here on your own anyway?" 

"Let’s just say I enjoy the quiet. It's a nice change of environment now that we've got not only one, but _two_ brats back at camp."

"Suit yourself. You was the one to bring me in." 

"Yesss. But it was my dear daddy who decided you could stay."

Arthur’s gaze lowers for a second. "Yeah… He's been good to me."

Micah glances at the other who walks beside him on the faint path in the forest. "He has his moments. He's either crazy like some wild horse or he's cool as cucumber. There's never no in between."

Arthur furrows his brows deeply, looking very childish. "Why?"

"I don't know. He's been like that as long as I can remember. Ever since the war."

"Wa-was he in the war…?" 

"Yes."

"Mine wasn't."

"Some _weren't_." By 'some', he meant outlaws. 

"Was he yankee or dixie?" 

Micah even halts for a second and tilts his head. "What _you think?"_ he asks back rhetorically with a raised brow before he starts walking again. 

Arthur doesn't need a clearer answer, so he moves on. "When you say he's crazy, what do you mean by that?" he asks instead, genuinely curious to know the answer. 

"You can wait and see for yourself, kid." 

"C'mon Micah, tell me."

"Noooo. You'll get your answers with time. _Beeeee_ patient."

Arthur still have his guard up when it comes to the blonde man, but recently he had started to relax in the company of the family and so he wanted to learn more about them. Otherwise he wouldn't have pressed on. "Just tell me something. You know of me, but I don't really know anything about all of you. Where you're from or where you're going."

Micah reaches his hand up to a branch, breaking a twig off of it just for the sake of it. "You need to know, huh? He says you're part of our merry group. Why isn't that enough for you?"

"I'm curious." 

Micah rolls his eyes and starts to pull out all the leaves from the twig. "Fine, but this, you haven't heard from me."

"Course not."

"Okay… So - I remember him drunk one time. I must have been eight or nine. We had found this old shack to shelter ourselves in. Was the worst storm I've seen to this day that night. Me and Amos woke up to him, talking to himself-" 

"Talking to himself?" 

"Yes. He was saying all kinds of crazy things and making no sense. He was furious 'bout something too, but I can't remember over what exactly. He's kinda moody, you know?" 

Arthur knows that the blonde man could get angry real quick, but not more than his own father could. 

"Anyway. Few days before, Amos had found this pup, born from a stray of course. And Ame, he sure loves his animals, so when he finds its mother dead a couple of yards away, he takes the only alive pup in, decides to take _care of it_ and nurse it back to good health."

Arthur smiles a little. 

Micah chuckles shortly, but it isn't filled with joy. "I bet Amos regrets to this day that he took care of that poor bastard dog, because me? I could smell the booze, it was reeking from father that night. And when he gets too much in him, oh well, it's never gonna end well. He starts banging the wall, shouting out names of men I've never even met. And _little puppy_ is hungry, so she starts making these noises and he, he loses his mind over it. Next thing he does is grab _little puppy_ from Amos and storm out of there. And Amos, he, he runs after him through the pouring rain, wanting his goddamn dog back. I run after Amos to drag him back inside because there was never any use in trying to save it."

Arthur isn't prepared for the turn the story takes and he almost says that he doesn't want to hear more, but he can't. "Wh-what did he do with it…?" 

"Drowned it of course... Like one do when unwanted _children_ , oh I'm sorry - I mean when _pups_ are born. It was stupid of Amos to ever think he could keep it. Kid knows better now though."

Arthur doesn't show it, but feels unsettled with how normal it all seems to Micah, the older kid almost seems to think it's funny. "But couldn't he just let the dog loose in the wild?" 

"It would have been dead within a day. Was too small. Too _weak_." Micah gives a meaningful glance at Arthur afterwards, thinking that the boy wasn't so different from that stray puppy. Good for Arthur that the man didn't decide on drowning him. "Was the best one could do for it. Amos didn't know how to feed it properly anyways."

Arthur feels sad for Amos' sake but Micah had a rather good point. 

Micah notices that the boy is deep in thought. "Lighten up, kid. Sometimes you _gotta_ laugh 'bout things like these, 'cause we can't do otherwise. Father says so." 

"That's a strange thought."

"Well neither of us are exactly the common citizen now, are we?" 

"Guess not…"

"How about you? Arthur no-name." Micah knows Arthur's surname is Morgan, but prefers to call him that because of his first reluctance of telling him his full name. "Haven't you got anything fun to share with me. Something from your life before all this? I don't know everything about you neither, so please - _Do_ speak up."

"I've told you everything. Everything that matters."

"Something that _doesn't_ matter then?" Micah grins to himself before he asks it, his face full with expectation. "Something like… Like…was your mother a _whore?"_

" _No_ , she weren't no…" Arthur's brows arch together seriously. "...no whore. But maybe yours was," he shoots back, Micah slightly going on his nerves. 

Micah laughs it off. "No. She wasn't actually."

"My mother was a nice woman. A proper lady. Don't go around saying things like that about her. Things that aren't true."

"And who says whores cant't be nice?" the older kid jokes and tries to brush off the fact that the other has taken offense. Micah rolls his eyes at Arthur's glare. "Fine. I'm uh... I'm _sorr-eee._ " Micah clears his throat, turning his head away at another direction. 

"What happened to _your_ mother?" the younger child asks after some time, seeming to have accepted the apology. 

For once, Micah becomes the closest to showing emotions than Arthur's ever seen, the glint in his eye fades out completely. "Let's just say she's lying peacefully in her grave, much like your mother." The blonde child breaks the twig in half and tosses the bits far off in some thickets.

"Oh… Sorry." It was easy to guess that Micah and Amos were motherless but it was different to have it confirmed by one of them. 

"I don't remember her, so wasn't much of a loss," Micah states and fastens his pace as to make it clear he doesn't want to continue speaking of it. 

^^^

"We need to find another horse," Micah the elder says one morning a few weeks later while they are on the move. "Tido and Ema can only carry so much and all of you are getting bigger. Heavier," referring to the three boys. 

Arthur had to switch between sitting behind Micah and Amos on their horses and so on, given he had no horse himself. 

"Let's not put Amos in charge of that though, if we do that, we might as well put a sign on him that says 'horses for free,' " the oldest kid teases. 

"Lay off, Micah!" Amos hisses and shoves at his brother's arm. "That was two years ago...!"

Arthur frowns, not quite following. Micah glances back at him, the both of them sitting on Micah’s grey Kentucky Saddler. 

The oldest child takes the freedom to tell Arthur about the incident. "Was in this town where me and daddy was gonna get some supplies, but little Amos here says he'll wait _outside_ with the _horses_ and-" 

"But Amos knows better now, doesn't he?" Micah the elder interrupts, not allowing Micah to finish. "And if he does the same mistake again, he'll have to walk for _two weeks_ this time."

Arthur looks at Amos, who seems to remember a painful time, if one were to go on the look on his face. "I won't," the child assures. 

"Of course you won't."

The blonde man and Amos eventually ride ahead while Micah slows Tido down a bit. 

"So… What happened?" Arthur asks in a whisper. "Did someone steal it from him?"

"No…" Micah gives a broad grin. " _He gave it away_."

Arthur tilts his head. "Gave it away?" 

"Yeah. Can you believe it? He bumped into this man who was all shook up 'cause someone had jumped him and stolen his horse and all his money or something like that. Ame overheard when the stranger spoke with the law 'bout it but they didn't do nothing 'bout it, or that's what Ame said anyhow."

Arthur tries to make sense of the story. "So he… he just gave his horse to him?" 

"Yup. A fine horse too. Worth a lot of money, it was. And he passed the reins to this stranger 'cause he felt _sorry_ for him. And since this feller had no money, Ame gave it away _for free._ Probably thought he could ride with me, but pa didn't let him. Made him walk by foot. _For a week_. Then we found Ema in the wild and pa said that he would get no help breaking her. So Ame spent three goddamn days trying to catch her with that rope of his. He was all beaten down, bloodied scrapes on hands and knees from all them times he'd fallen down and got dragged along. Eventually, he refused to let the rope go, tired her down after he'd been sneaking on her and chasing her all over the plains. He showed her alright. In two weeks time, he'd never made the man so disappointed and proud at the same time."

Arthur didn't know if Micah was telling the truth or not but he was pretty taken by the story. He figured he had to ask Amos himself about it. "But he tried to set things right, didn't he?" 

"Mm…Yes. But that's not the point."

"Then what is the point?" 

"You know what Amos' biggest weakness is, Arthur? ...It's his goddamn heart. It's too big, and he's going on about this whole right and wrong thing all the time. _That is_ the point and I'm sure even you've noticed."

"Is that such a bad thing then?" Arthur asks, not understanding why it would be a mistake. 

Micah glances over his shoulder. "Here with us, it's the worst thing. The man don't want us thinking about things like that. Says we need to put ourselves first at all times. What's right or wrong don't matter no more. Not if we want to survive."

Arthur gives it some thought. When Micah puts it that way, he guess it doesn't sound so strange after all. He starts to think about his own father again, something that wouldn't quite let him go. How he never did anything right. Only wrong. He sighs to himself and speaks of other things to push the thought of him away. "Uhm. Where are we headed?" 

"That's a question I'd prefer you not to ask," Micah says in one tired exhale. 

"Why?" 

"Amos asks that all the time and never once can I tell him where we're going."

"You don't know?" 

"No. Only _he_ knows." Micah nods at the blonde man riding up front in the distance. "And he never tells. It's always been like that."

"Have you been on the road that long?" 

"Yes. We had a small farm once. But it didn't work out." It wasn't Micah’s intention to tell Arthur that much and he curses internally for the mistake. 

"You had a farm… ?" the kid asks in awe. 

Micah speaks almost through gritted teeth. "...Uh-huh."

"And?"

"And what?" 

"What was it like?" 

"Mm... Remember what I told you about pups? Pa did it all the time there when we had too many of 'em. Kittens too." 

"But what happened to the farm? My ma told me a story once 'bout how her great grandfather had to sell all their land because nothing would grow there, or something like that."

"Wasn't like that. We just had to leave."

"Did someone force you away?"

"Noooo. We just had to."

"I don't understand, were there bandi-" 

"Enough, alright! I _said_ , we just _had to_."

Arthur stares at the back of Micah’s neck with big eyes, wondering what he had said wrong. "I'm sor-" 

Micah halts now, twisting his torso so that he could look properly at Arthur. "And don't you dare apologize. We don't do that here. Not to anyone. You got that?" 

Arthur nods quickly but still doesn't understand. He chooses to keep his silence after that, thinking it was for the best. 

Micah spurs Tido into a trot to catch up with the others. He makes Arthur ride with Amos instead and then he rides off, saying he would scout ahead. And that's when he finds a strange new town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. You are great.


	6. Odd job in the town of widowers

As the blonde makes a quick observation around this new town, lingering especially at the posters of wanted men in the county, Arthur can feel the few passerbys glance at the three boys in particular. Micah comments a frank question about what they were staring at, in which some mumble something only themselves could hear. 

The long and dry summer was reaching its end and the soft and cool breeze that blew by was another reminder of that to Micah Bell Jr. as they hitch their horses outside the town's saloon. He knows that Arthur’s only clothes are the ones on his body and if the boy is wise, he would start finding ways of getting a warm set. 

It is nice and quiet inside but it had everything to do with the time of day. It is only afternoon and the so called wild bunch that exists in every town, hadn't seem to found their way there yet. 

Micah takes a quick look around the saloon and cocks his head to a booth they could sit in. Arthur had been in a couple of saloons and even whorehouses before. His father had dragged him along when he was too little to take care of himself. These are distant memories, but they exist somewhere deep in his mind. He always thought places like these had a distinct smell and he feels a familiarity as soon as he steps inside those doors.

Amos always feels uncomfortable in this environment. He senses that more than a few drunken men stare at them inside there as well, some longer than others.

The blonde man waves for his oldest to join him by the bar. 

"What do you say, kid? You up for a drink or two?" he asks Micah when he's by his side, eyeing him without turning his head to him entirely. 

The fourteen year old had tasted alcohol before. Like any curious child, he wanted to do the things his father did. He remembers how he had taken a mouthful of cheap bourbon when he was twelve, only to spit it out within a second. It hadn't been appreciated by the blonde man and Micah had taught himself to get used to the taste ever since. "Yeah. Sure, sir."

The man glances at Amos and Arthur sitting in their corner. "What about them?" 

Micah shrugs his shoulders. 

The blonde sighs. "What fine help you are," he mumbles and rearranges the hat on his head. 

Micah crosses his arms but doesn't know what to say. 

"Hi there."

Micah turns around when the bartender speaks up. A far lighter voice than he'd expected. Behind the counter stands a dark haired woman perhaps in her late twenties. 

"What can I get you, mister?" she asks with a raised chin. 

"Four beers. One shot of bourbon." The man pauses and sharpens his gaze at her. "And don't you hold back on that bourbon," he adds, looking very serious. 

"Sure," the woman nods. 

"I must say…" the blonde man starts as he fishes up some money. "...ain't every day I see a woman serving booze." 

Micah notices the small smirk on the woman's lips. "And it ain't every day I see a father buy his children drinks. Ain't so common around these parts. The children, I mean, not the drinks." 

"That so?" The blonde puts some coins on the bartop, giving far more than he had to. "And why is it that children are such a rarity in your town, miss?" 

The bartender doesn't spill a drop when she moves back and pours the beer out from the cask. She had done this more times than she could count. Micah is sure of it. 

"I don't rightly know. There _are_ children, just not so many. So times like these, it's nice to see." She smiles widely, warmly. "...and not to mention three of them…!" she exclaims, referring to Micah and what she believes are his brothers. She's half right. 

Micah is close to comment that he isn't a child anymore, but the woman looks too happy for him to change it. 

The blonde snorts. "Perhaps this town simply ain't meant for children. Or do you know something I don't?"

She shakes her head to herself slowly as she focuses on pouring the last glass. "I'm not the superstitious kind, let's get that clear but…"

"All clear," the blonde man says, holding back a roll of his eyes. 

She notices as much and intentionally pushes one of the beer glasses to him slightly too fast, causing it to spill out some on the bartop. 

The blonde watches her from under the wide brim of his hat with a not so amused expression from her action. 

"But…?" Micah dares to ask, ignoring his father's dislike with the woman. 

The bartender gives half a smile to the kid. "If you'd stay in this town for a couple of days, you'll notice that it's mostly made up of widowers. Far more than could be considered common. Ain't that strange? It's like there's some bad luck over this town."

"What you mean? Like there's some curse or something?" Micah Bell Jr. doesn't buy it and makes as much clear with his tone. 

The bartender looks almost offended, pausing in tapping out the beer. "Of course not…! Just that… the women around here disappear at times, and most of them are never found. Men become widowers but they got no bodies to bury."

Micah listens attentively to the woman that tells them about the town's history. He figured this would be a good story to tell Amos later. 

"Yeah well… It saves them widowers some money, don't you think?" his father comments without shame, leaning forward with his elbows on the bartop. 

The bartender merely places a hand on her hip and gives a raised eyebrow to his bad tasted joke. "You sound like one of them deputies. And not to mention their boss man…" She huffs and shakes her head tiredly. "The sheriff here does nothing 'bout it. Don't know how many times I've asked them 'bout it."

"Perhaps they've got better things to do than chasing girls all over the county." The blonde gives an exaggerated sad sigh. "Especially when they don't even get to keep 'em."

The bartender even crosses her arms by now, head held high. "Careful now. I know how to shoot a gun."

Micah’s father is the one to smirk now and the child can see the woman's eyes narrow somewhat at him in return. For a few seconds that feel like an eternity, the strained atmosphere between the woman and his father seem to transform to something else. Micah feels confused, as if the adults spoke a language he couldn't quite understand. 

The bartender collects the money without tearing her eyes away from the blonde stranger. "I guess you'd let me keep the change, huh?" 

"You guessed right, miss," the blonde answers, nodding at the glasses to Micah. The child takes one glass in each hand. 

The bartender still observes the blonde as the latter takes the whole double shot of bourbon without a grimace. He tips his hat to her before he takes the two remaining glasses and slowly moves away from the bar. 

"Hey, stranger," she calls after him, making the blonde pause in his steps. "You don't want to know my name?" she asks in a far different voice than before. 

Micah’s father turns back to her and thinks about her offer for a few seconds. 

"The women are scarce around these parts, after all…" the bartender adds. 

He shakes his head eventually. "Nah, you see… I'm _already_ a widower. And if the legend is what you say it is, being it a second time don't interest me much." 

The woman lets the words sink in. If there is any disappointment, she doesn't let it show. "Fair enough, stranger." 

Micah believes he can see a small smile linger on his father's lips, but it never breaks out fully before the man heads for the table they'd settled with in a corner. 

Micah offers a 'thank you' to the woman, and she gives a simple nod back as answer. 

Arthur looks down at the glass of beer that is presented to him. He'd never tasted it and is slightly concerned over what he had to do for it. 

"C'mon. It's yours. Not everyday we pass a town." The blonde lifts up the glass to his lips but lowers it slightly. "And one without women too…" He raises his brows to himself before he drinks. 

It is enough answer for Arthur and he nods a thank you to the man. 

Micah knows his father is feeling generous this day and it happened seldom. If he were to be honest, it only made it feel even better when these occasions did happen. It meant that the man was pleased with them. For now. 

An hour or two pass and soon the sun had set outside and more and more customers crave a drink along with the evening. While the blonde man jumps between a game of liar's dice, blackjack and a few more rounds to the bar, the boys sit mostly unbothered by the men batting an eye at the uncommon sight of children. 

Arthur and Amos both feel somewhat sleepy by the one and a half beers they had in them and Micah would lie if he claim he feels sober. He had at least managed to get a hold of a deck of cards for Amos and he and his newfound friend were in their own world with Amos excitingly trying to explain to Arthur what 'Five-card stud' was, a card game passed on from the blonde man to his sons. Micah briefly listens to the children getting just about everything wrong. 

The blonde had probably had thrice as many beers as them along with a couple of bourbons but it have a different effect on him, with being close to sober than the opposite still. The one thing that give away his small intoxication is the loss of focus and awareness he normally possess, but it isn't enough for him to not notice he was being watched by an awkward looking man lurking in a corner. 

Micah had been glancing back at the bartender a couple of times, seeing how she for the last half an hour had been speaking with a man that looked like any decent townsfolk. She was laughing when she wasn't too busy pouring drinks to customers, again and again returning to the man between each. And the man was patiently waiting for her as well. He has an awful looking scar across one of his ears, but a pretty face otherwise. 

As his father returns to their table to down the bourbon waiting for him, Micah feels anxious because he could feel his sense of self discipline weaken with the alcohol in his blood. He had been staring at his father for roughly a minute before the man notices. He was about to ask him something when the man pulls the chair backwards and stands up, as if he could sense his son's curiosity somehow. 

"Need to relieve myself," he explains and doesn't wait around for an answer. He looks around at the few people in the saloon before heading outside. 

Micah almost misses the figure that follows him. 

^^^

Micah Bell Jr. isn't in a mood to rush so he stands still on his spot for a few long seconds in the dark outside world. He takes his time to take a look around the town that feels suspiciously quiet, getting eye contact with more than a few men on their way but none of which acts out of normal. 

With slow steps, he moves around the corner of the saloon and let his palm brush against the wooden wall as he heads for the back of the building.

Most men wouldn't have a care in the world and the majority of drunken slobs pissed right on the porch or steps to the building, but he wasn't _that_ drunk. 

A quick glance tells him it isn't anything behind the saloon but some old wooden barrels and a rundown shack in a backyard with dried out grass from the hot summer. This is after all the edge of the lonesome town. 

He could hear crickets chirp loudly in the cool evening air he breathes in deeply. Without giving a second thought he presses himself to the back wall of the saloon and lowers himself to a squat. 

After unholstering his right hand gun, he waits. 

Trying to make himself as small as possible, his focus locks on the very corner he had just passed. 

There is only silence except the sound of drunken laughter escaping from a half opened window on the second floor of the saloon. 

His breaths are calm and his heartbeat never increases as the barrel of a gun slowly peaks out from the corner. Old Micah waits for the exact moment that the probable assailant comes forth. 

A heavy boot is the next part of the man that reveals itself as he tries to move quietly. With the next step, a second goes by without the stranger even noticing the fair headed man squatting beneath him. And when he does, he doesn't have the time to react. 

The blonde uses his revolver to deal out a particularly powerful blow to the other's knee cap and he does so with enough force to bring out a painful growl from him. As the man falls to his good knee, Bell uses the time to lunge himself at him, gripping around his neck as they fall to the ground together with a heavy thud. 

With both of them having a gun in one hand, they either pull or push at the other with their free hands in a desperate attempt to get the upper hand. 

They practically roll around in their battle, causing dust to whirl up in the fresh evening air. 

"Goddamn…!" The stranger exclaims in pain and yanks a harder hold at the blonde's coat in an effort to push him away and roll him over to his back. "Calm down, I'm not-" 

Bell headbuts him so that the assailant is pushed to _his_ back instead. He instantly crawls on top of him and delivers a blow from his left fist. And then another and another. 

"I'm gonna fucking kill you, you hear!?" the blonde growls at the man he straddles. He even drops his revolver in order to get two free hands. He gives the hardest punch thus far, causing the back of the stranger's head to hit the ground beneath him as well. 

As the assailant shakily tries to make use of his gun, Bell grabs around the other's wrist in an iron grip and sinks his teeth into the rough skin. The man lets out an even louder growl this time and as the blonde wants him to, he instinctively drops his gun from the pain of the bite. 

The blonde instantly takes the gun when it hits the ground and just as quickly, he reaches for his own too and aims at the other with the revolvers in each hand. 

"WHO, SENT, YOU?!" he demands, roaring out his question. 

The blonde can tell that the man is groggy from the blows he had suffered by his hand, given that his arms are close to limp by his sides. 

The stranger - a rather hefty but not very strong man, breathes heavily as he gazes up with heavy lidded eyes that are more filled with fear than anything malicious. He swallows once and he does so loudly as he tries to come to his senses. His adam's apple bobs up and then down under his spotty bearded neck that is as ungroomed as his dark and greasy hair. He lets out a quiet whimper. 

Bell cocks back the hammer of his revolver and pushes the muzzle past the other's lips who weakly protests with a few indistinguishable words. 

"Who are you?" The blonde speaks quieter now but through gritted teeth and with no less madness in his voice than before. "You come here, try and kill me…You think I won't shoot, huh?" Oohooohoh I'll leave you here alright and I'll, I'll leave you with a hole in your head unless you answer my question right about now." He pushes the barrel even further inside the other's mouth, causing the other to almost gag. The blonde stares down at the other with wide open eyes, tilting his head at the guttural sound. "Or maybeee I'll just let you choke on it…" He tests out how deep he can go with the gun. 

The panic is enough for the assailant to regain his awareness enough to instinctively grab and shake at the blonde's arm. Bell pulls out the revolver and yanks back his arm so the other lets it go. 

The dark haired man instantly coughs and swallows a few times. His eyes look far more awake now. "I-I-I wasn't gonna….gonna shoot you… thought you looked the type and damn if-f I was right…" His voice is wavering slightly, and he speaks so quickly it is almost incoherent. 

The fury inside the blonde is slow to a rest but his urge to kill reaches a stillness that causes him to lift his fingers away from the triggers. In his new calm, he can feel how tired his knees are from the awkward half sitting position over the man that is a pathetic sight in that moment. 

With a grunt, he lifts himself up and stands over the other. "You were aiming that gun at me before you even tried to call out to me. So forgive me, stranger, if I didn't think your intentions were of the earnest kind." 

The stranger pushes himself up with his elbows as leverage until he sits upright on the ground, leaning himself against the facade of the saloon. "Let's call it a safety p-p-precaution then. Didn't know what you were capable of as I followed you. But now I do." 

"Why exactly _did_ you follow me, huh? And don't give me any lies. Just answeeeer my question." The blonde glances meaningfully at both guns in his hands, as if the other needed a reminder of what the outcome could be. 

"I followed you t-to ask if you wanted to carry out a job for me..."

This makes the blonde furrow his brows in confusion. "A job?" 

"Uh-huh," the stranger hurries to answer, understanding that if he wanted to stay alive he would have to cut to the chase. "Thought you seemed like the right man. This place don't get many passerbys and the ones that do come here are tired cattlemen traveling a long way, only wanting a drink or two, not one of them interested in my offer. But you-" 

"What _about_ me?" 

"I saw your peacemakers right away in the bar. Ain't everyone carrying guns around here. Especially not two of them."

The blonde huffs. "You got a gun yourself…" The blonde inspects the Remington in his left hand. "Old…but well aged." 

"It's been passed on from my old man. He had it on his travels for protection."

"But you take me for an outlaw for doing the same." 

"No… but a man that perhaps can do something I cannot."

"And what's that?" the blonde asks with scepticism. 

The dark haired grunts as he with much effort heaves himself up to stand. He winces slightly as he has to put his weight on his battered knee. "My sister… she…" He shakes his head, a pain of another kind showing in his face. "There's a man that took her from me… But no one believes me. And he's in that saloon right now and if I wasn't too much of a goddamn coward, I would've pulled the trigger already…!" 

Micah Bell Jr. realises what the man asks of him. The man, who now struggles to keep it together. "You just aim and shoot…and don't think while you do it. You just let the bullet take care of the problem. Simple as that."

"I've never killed anyone in my life, mister… and I-I've got a wife and three children that need me. No. I can't take the risk… But I still want that man dead… 'cause he did something to her, I'm sure of it." 

The blonde isn't the sympathetic type and whatever tragedy had struck this stranger, he is more interested in the money. "How much?" 

"84 dollars I can give you, it's every penny I've got."

"You find a way to make that 100, then I'm all yours."

The man darts his eyes back and forth until they settle on the other with a pleading in them. 

Micah Bell Jr. is gifted enough to be able to differ truth from lies. He sighs deeply and inspects the older revolver in his hand again. "84. And I'm taking the gun."

Reading his facial expressions, it seems that the man is somewhat bothered by the thought of giving up his late father's gun and the blonde's patience is sure to run out. But as he gives an approving nod as to say they had reached a deal, Bell raises his chin slightly. 

"His name is Jimmy Robson," the stranger whispers now. "Dark haired like me, a scar across his ear that no one knows the history to. Handsome face, most would say. I'd say he's about your age, give or take." 

"A scar huh." The blonde thinks about all the men he'd observed while inside the saloon. "Yeah… I saw him back in there. Looked like a decent feller to me. How can you be so sure he's done something wrongfully?"

"I'm sure."

The blonde stares at the other for a long time, enough to decide that he would have to take him for his words. "Okay. Whatever you say." He lowers his voice further. "Now, where's that money?" 

The stranger hands a heavy pouch to him placed in the satchel he was carrying around on. "Count it if you want. It's all there." 

"I will, thank you."

He counts the money in silence, taking his time to do so. If a single penny was missing, he would make sure to make that man find a way to get it. 

"Looks like I never had any chance to begin with," the stranger says as the blonde is just finished, pleased by the exact amount of 84 dollars. "One of yours, I reckon."

The blonde looks to where the stranger had turned his head to, his focus at a spot of the opposite corner behind the building. The sight is enough for a smile to crack out on the blonde's chapped lips. 

Atop an old big barrel, sits the young version of him with his gun aiming at the dark haired man. His whole arm is shaking somewhat by the long time he had been ready to provide support had it come to it. 

"It's alright boy. You can lower your gun now."

Micah obeys his father's order, bending and stretching his arm by the second. 

The stranger turns to him now. "There's a cabin two miles east of here. Fairly lone. That cabin would be Jimmy's, and for all I know, he ain't got no family…No one around for miles… To get there, you'll just follow the main road until you reach a burnt down old chapel, cross the woods north of it and you'll get to the place by the end of the path."

The blonde gives a nod, memorizing the route. "You and me? We never spoke. If _someone_ were to tell tales of me, be sure to expect a house call… one where I make sure your wife and children is at home. You understand?" He couldn't make his threat even clearer but there is no need. The sheer horror in the stranger's face is enough proof that the latter wouldn't mention this business to anyone in any circumstances. He nods rapidly. "Good. Now, consider this affair settled. And go home."

The man nods again just as rapidly. He is about to leave but stops himself and looks at the blonde. "Thank you." Then he disappears around the corner and with his absence, the town seems to be coming alive again, with the sound of drunken laughter from the saloon appearing to become louder. 

The blonde walks over to his son with no rushed steps. "So. You followed me." 

"He followed you and I followed him," Micah answers, gesturing a rolling motion with his gun, bowing his head slightly to his service. 

The man nods to himself a few times, his gaze resting on the ground before his silver toed boots as he walks. "How much did you hear?" Speaking with a monotone voice, it almost doesn't sound like a question. 

"Everything," Micah answers truthfully and without hesitation. He takes a brief look around to make sure they're alone. "You're going to kill a man and you're going to kill him for 84 dollars," he continues, his face and voice as neutral as they could be. 

"And a gun," the blonde adds, lifting it up slightly to show it to his son. 

"And a gun," the child echoes. 

The blonde stops in front of him now, resting his hands on each side of Micah where he sits with his legs dangling off the edge of the wooden barrel. The man slowly turns his head up to look his son straight in the eye. "And you're gonna help me." 

Micah struggles with maintaining his neutral face but a twitch of an eye can easily be seen. "Help you kill him?"

"Yeah. About time you got use of that gun… or hands… or knife… You can decide when we get there." The smile on his lips is subtle, comes out slowly until it's fully. "How about it, kid?" 


	7. Death of innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After locating his cabin, Micah and his father await the man they're paid to kill.

"This could've gone smoother," the blonde states to himself in the aftermath of their crimes. 

Micah holds a hand against the wall of the small shed that acted as firewood storage. He does so to steady himself as he empties the contents of his stomach. The distinct smell of beer and dried meat he had had earlier that day stings in his nostrils. 

The air is chilly and he is reminded of how much colder the nights had become in contrast to the long summer nights that had been. Fall was on its way and rapidly. 

With the back of his hand, he wipes away the vomit and saliva strings hanging from his mouth. He glances back at the small cabin, readying himself to breathe in that irony smell of blood again. 

With wobbly legs, he heads back to join his father in his search of any riches inside the cabin. 

The heels of Micah’s boots clap loudly against the wooden floor with each uncertain step. Despite his shakiness, he steps over the two dead bodies lying on different locations on the floor with the same swiftness he had inherited from his father. 

"Make yourself useful. Look for any hidden places, you know which ones."

His father's voice is calm, if not somewhat exhausted sounding. 

He doesn't respond. He let his eyes slowly drift over the whole place. 

Almost every drawer is either pulled out or opened, any loose board from the floor had been lifted and even the mattress is moved out of place to be searched beneath. The place isn't big, but hidden places could be many.

When he stands on his spot for a few seconds too long for the man's liking, Micah is met by a sudden grip by his father's hand. The man holds his face roughly with a few strings of fair locks getting stuck between his calloused fingers. The man uses this to his advantage and tighten his grip, causing Micah’s head to instantly lock with his father's painful touch. 

"We don't have time for this, you hear? You either help me _now_ or you'll wish you goddamn would've had. I will _not_ tolerate another mistake from you. Is. That. _Clear?_ " 

He moves his hand, getting a good chunk of Micah’s hair now. He yanks backwards, causing the kid's head to be yanked along with it, so that his eyes are directed up at his father. The man looks down at him, Micah still a head shorter than him. 

"I did this. You did this." The blonde pulls with his hand and cocks Micah’s head down, forcing him to look at the two people they had killed. His voice is as calm as ever and he almost whispers. The kid can feel his warm breath against his ear. "You agreed on doing it so there's no room for regret here."

Micah still doesn't answer and whatever he feels when he looks at the dead bodies, it isn't exactly remorse. On the contrary, he feels close to nothing inside except a feeling of guilt towards one of the people whose lives they had ended that night. 

If it hadn't been necessary, he wouldn't have done it to said person, he briefly had the time to think. 

But now when it was finished, he feels a sense of accomplishment, mostly because he had managed to pull through with his father's orders. But that didn't mean he was used to the amount of blood and the distinct smell that left people as they died, releasing their bowels and bladders on the spot. 

Micah blinks to himself a few times, tasting the vomit in his mouth in the middle of all the other new experiences in his senses. Registering it all to be put away in what would be his memory of this night. 

Another warm breath is soft against his skin. "There wasn't any other way. This was their fate." 

Micah’s scalp hurts badly as his father pulls harder at his hair to make him stand up straightly again and face him. 

"They're gone now because of us. Get used to the idea and get used to it now. You can empty your stomach as needed for all I care. But only because it's your first time. It will go away. Eventually."

His nausea had come quick, sneaking up on him only to strike as an instantaneous reaction to the sight of what they had done. 

The problem isn't perhaps in the new experience, the problem is perhaps that he had experienced it before. 

His mother. 

Micah saw his mother when he saw her body. He tried not to think of it nowadays, knowing that it belonged to a past life they would never go back to. It wasn't allowed to speak of and best thing he could do was to forget it and every emotion it left in his chest.

Mother.

She had been dead for nine years. 

There was no room for her anymore. Never was. 

Neither was there any room for this one. 

Micah gives a single nod and his father lets him go. Without wasting time, he helps with searching the place. As he does, he can't help but glance back with suspicion at the bodies as if he expected them to rise again. Neither can he help to replay the past hour in his head as he feels a small drop of red roll down his temple and along his jaw line. He knows it's not from him. 

>>Forty-five minutes earlier<<

"Now, we'll wait." 

His father sits himself in a simple wooden chair in a corner close to the window next to the door. He had moved it so that he was facing whoever opened. He crosses a leg and keeps his loaded gun prepared by resting his hand across his lap. 

The only source of light comes from the moon outside, creating an eerie pale color in the air. In that very light, Micah can see the dust particles fly around and the sight reminds him of that abandoned house on the old ranch they had found a few months back. 

"Why can't we search the place now?" Micah suggests from where he leans against the wall at the opposite side of the door. He too, has his revolver ready in hand, his arm hanging idly by his side. 

"Too dark to do it properly and we won't light any of them lamps 'cause-" 

The kid nods to himself. " 'Cause then he'll know someone's here." Micah finishes the sentence for the man, understanding the logic at the same time he opens his mouth about it. "And he could be here any second...got it…"

Micah the elder is silent at first. He sinks an elbow into the armrest and rests his chin atop the free hand. He rubs the back of his index finger across his lips as if he's deep in thought which he never was. His stubble is much longer than he would usually let it grow and it made him look even older. 

Micah feels empty, not knowing what exactly he felt as the man said he would come along. Neither did he know what he expected of all this. 

They had decided a rendezvous point, in case they got separated for any reason. The man had said to Arthur and Amos that they were to wait for them, telling them to be ready to ride as soon as they got back. As far as Micah knows, the two boys didn't know a thing of what they are up to. The man had only said that he had some business and that Micah was coming along, to which Amos had kept his mouth closed to, while Arthur had offered to help out. 

_"Oh no…you're not ready for that kind of job yet, kid,"_ the man had answered then, earning a questioning look from the young child. 

That meant he believed that his oldest was. 

Sure, Micah had been yearning for the day he would get use of all his practice over the years. His finger was itching to try out his gun for real but as he rests his eyes at his father's face, he wished it wouldn't have to be quite like this. 

"You know…we could just leave…" his father suddenly murmurs with the finger still brushing over his own lips. "That idiot gave me all he had before I even got the job done… _Who_ does something like that...?" 

"I gueeess, someone that puts an awful lot of trust in strangers…" Micah answers with a smirk. 

Despite sitting in the dark, Micah can see his father's cold blue eyes as they seek him out. 

"We don't _have to_ kill this man...We could just…let him live."

Micah feels confused, if not for his father's, then for his own uncertainty in where he stood in all of this. "Then why, sir? Why are we here?" 

" _Whyyy…?_ " His father turns his head to stare into the darkness of the cabin. "Why…" He rubs his fingers over his eyelids and inhales deeply afterwards. "Because…"

Micah had been leaning the back of his head against the wall but he finds himself to stand up straighter now, attentively listening to the man. He seems very out of the ordinary, this being the closest his father had ever spoken to him as an equal. It wasn't in his words, it was in his very voice. A form of respect that weren't between father and son, but between two men. 

"You called me a killer a couple of...of months back. Remember?" 

"Yes…" How could he forget? His backside had been sore and bleeding for days. 

"Took some courage to say something like that to me, I'm sure."

Micah is speechless. Was the man giving him his approval? 

"You said so...because you know I've done many things in the past… and nowadays too. Mostly bad and even badder things…" 

"I don't know everything," the kid tries and it isn't a lie. He _doesn't_ know. But he _do_ knows _._ Can figure it out _without_ all the knowledge. 

"C'mon… You're not stupid, Micah…" 

The kid is careful with his answers, knowing that sometimes, silence was the best kind. Time and again, the man put a lot of weight in one's choice of words. A lesson that Amos had learned far better than Micah to this day. Like the man had said more than a few times, Micah just didn't know when to shut up, but he just couldn't help it sometimes. For once, he knows that this was one of those moments where his decision of speaking or not could be crucial to the outcome. 

He's relieved when his father continues talking, realising that the man didn't expect an answer in the first place. 

"Did you know that I've lost count of how many people I've killed?" he confesses without any emotion to it. 

"I only know of one for certain," Micah comments, a risky move on his behalf. He can feel his heart beat out of his chest afterwards. 

His father snorts. "Careful now…" he warns darkly before he continues, shooting a dangerous glare at his first born. He exhales a sigh, almost endless. "I've killed both men and women for different reasons. I've gone and done it so many times that I don't longer _need_ a reason. You think this is the first time I've done something like this for pay?" The man's lips twitch into a small smile. "Noooo," he answers himself with a few slow shakes of his head. 

Micah realises how hard he is furrowing his brows as the man pauses. The blonde is still, relaxed, speaking without remorse. 

"And I'm starting to think you're the same as me, kid. I can feel it."

The man heaves himself up from the chair without a sound and presses himself to become one with the wall, much like his son. 

"And I was never one to hold back… so neither should you."

Micah is fourteen years old but in that very moment, he feels even younger. In the aftermath of his father's words, he feels like a small child again still trying to figure out the world. Lost. 

"Now, prove to me that you're _capable_ , because my expectations…" One of the man's eyebrows shoot up. "...are high… _Now hush_ … _Be quiet_." He whispers the last few words so Micah almost can't hear them. 

Micah doesn't have the time to answer before he hears the distant sound of smacking hooves coming from outside. 

The blonde had heard the man approaching far sooner than his son and now he stands with an arm up and bent, revolver in hand next to his head. 

Micah suddenly becomes very nervous, his stomach turning by what is to come. He tries not to make it show but his father sees everything and his hard gaze is enough for him to gather himself. 

The blonde is further away from the door than Micah is and whatever plan they had from before, the kid could sense that he would have to make a few decisions of his own tonight. 

They're dead silent as heavy and seemingly dragging steps come from the porch just outside. They both observe the door as it's being unlocked and opened. 

Micah presses himself harder against the wall as the man that is Jimmy Robson enters his own home. Without noticing them on his left and right side in the darkness, he walks right in, pulling the door to a close after him. 

The kid glances at his father, waiting for him to do something but he doesn't. Neither does he give away any sign as to what to do next. 

Micah chews on the inside of his cheeks, feeling them become hotter as well as his ears. He soundlessly aims at the back of the victim's head. 

The blonde tilts his head slightly at his son's choice of approach. He becomes absorbed by the sight. 

"Shiiit, can't see nothing in here," Robson mutters to himself after he bumps into a table. 

Micah keeps his aim but he doesn't go after the man. The cabin is small enough so one could see almost every part of it from there. There is no way he could lose sight of him. Instead, he becomes curious. Finding almost a pleasant feeling inside in observing someone that didn't know they were being watched. 

As Robson uses a match to light up one of the kerosene lamps on the wall, the blonde divides his attention between him and his son, feeling humored that the man is yet to discover them. 

The cabin lights up slightly and enough for them to see the face of the man. It's him alright, the same handsome face, same scar across his ear that no one knows the history to. 

Robson only now senses that something is wrong and he instantly turns around to face where they are, catching a glimpse of them in the corner of his eye. 

"Hey, you," Micah greets with a perfect aim at Robson's head. 

"The hell is this??" the man exclaims, sounding more angered than terrified of having two strangers inside his home, where as one has a gun pointed at his face. "Hey… I recognize the two of you. Saw you in the saloon before…the hell are you doing in here? You here to rob me, is that it?" He speaks with an intensity that gives no room for an answer. "Do you have any idea-" 

"Someone wants you dead," Micah blurts out, talking over the man who finally shuts his mouth. "And they paid us to make it happen." He gestures with his gun for the other to lift his arms. 

The blonde raises a brow to that straightforward answer. 

Robson lifts his hands up in the air and narrows his eyes, not one to become easily intimidated, apparently. "Do you have any idea who I am?" he asks them both, his voice wavering slightly from how offended he feels by the situation. 

"No. And frankly...we don't give a rat's ass…" the blonde man states, directing all attention to himself now. As Robson turns his body slightly to him, he can see the six shooter on his right hip. The blonde becomes almost excited by how uncertain the whole situation is. His lips twitch slightly. 

It doesn't go unnoticed by Micah neither. "Put away that gun you got there. And beeee nice."

"No offense, but I don't take orders from a kid, _kid_." 

"HE SAAAID. _Drop that fucking gun_ ," the blonde repeats and instantly aims his gun at him as well. He presses himself away from the wall and walks a few heavy and threatening steps towards the man. 

Even now, Robson doesn't show an inch of submission and the blonde stands close to him only to unholster the gun himself and to toss it away on the floor so that it lands close to the only door. Robson stares after it with a neutral expression. "Who exactly is it that wants me dead? What have I allegedly done, according to that certain someone?" 

"It doesn't matter. We got a job to do and we _will_ do what we're paid to do. You're in no position to be asking questions." 

Micah can't help but notice that the words are just as directed to him as they are to Robson. 

"What if _I_ pay you _instead?_ I've got some valuables in here that might be of interest. You can get them in exchange for my life." 

"You try'na bargain with me?" The blonde snorts to that suggestion. "Nah. If you got any valuables in here, we'll make sure to find them. _After_ we've killed you."

The man winces theatrically. "Mm. That's stooone cold, mister…" Robson says, the corners of his lips pulling up slightly. "Look. I don't know you, and you don't know me. You can just walk away and we can all forget this ever happened. And If I'm feeling nice enough, I might not put a bounty on that pretty head of yours."

"Nice try," the blonde answers unconvinced before he shifts his attention to his son. "Micah Bell the third. Take care of this one for me, son…in any way that pleases you." 

Micah swears internally as the man uses his name. He shoots a wide eyed glare at his father but the unworried look he gets back is only another foolproof detail of his father's plan. He would _have_ to shoot him now. 

shoot him shoot him shoot

Robson stares at him with a confidence that troubles him. 

" _Shoot_. Him. Son. Don't think about it too long..."

Micah still keeps a steady aim at the man as he is put in this very uncomfortable position. There is something about Robson's dark and penetrative gaze that was off. He could feel his heart pound far quicker inside his chest, causing his hands to shake somewhat. 

"What are you waiting for, Micah? DO IT." 

_shoot him shoot him shoot him_

_don't, don't, don't_

He closes in on the man, not relying on himself with the short distance to his target anymore. 

"Kid of yours looks nervous," Robson states. "You sure you can pull that trigger, kid?"

"Don't listen to him. Just. SHOOT. HIM." 

_shoot him shoot him kill him_

_don't don't DON'T-_

"You don't have the guts to-" 

The way Robson mocks him, speaking with disrespect and too similar to when his father is at his worst causes him to do the exact thing Robson doubts him with, ignoring everything that feels wrong inside of him. But he lowers his aim before he does it. 

A haunting shriek of agony spreads through the night and Robson is instantly sent backwards a few steps only to fall heavy to his knees. 

"AARGH! You fff-f-FUCKING…animal…! SON of a whore. GODDAMN...!" he spits out in a single sentence. 

"Don't waste your breath there, Robson." The blonde gives a brilliant smile, his teeth glistening in the dim light. 

Micah blinks rapidly a few times, not believing what he had done at first. There's a turn in his stomach at first when he sees all the blood drop down on the wooden floor. In this bad light, it's almost impossible to see if it weren't for the glossiness in the red drops. But what follows is a feeling of power that he never could have imagined. The closest he had felt to this was when he had taken a shot at his father. Even if it had only lasted for a couple of seconds that time, it was the best few seconds of his life. The feeling of being in control and stronger than the other is something he didn't know he had needed to this degree. 

Then his stomach turns again. As he watches the fatally wounded man, it couldn't be clearer that hadn't it been by his hand or his father's, this man might have lived to old age. With a single pull of his trigger, he had decided for the man how he would die and while his euphoria could still be felt somewhere inside, the utter guilt is just as present. 

What bothers him the most is how little he had actually cared about what this man had done to deserve this outcome. Micah had acted only according to an order but also to his own instinct and heated feelings. A careless act as much as a spontaneous one. An action that only times like these could be excused with how little it mattered, given that the man was dead either way. 

He glances at his father, who meets him with entirely different eyes than he'd ever seen them. They didn't frighten him in the slightest and they held no power over him at that moment. He wonders how long it would last but somehow, he feels it would be a change that would follow them and the fragile bond they share, forever. 

Despite the raging war of different emotions inside of him, Micah feels a stillness in being the dominant one, that also being the one showing on the outside. With this stillness, he again focus on the man he had killed for certain. 

Robson sits on his heels, staring at the floor with his both hands covering his abdomen. "They'll k-ki-kill you for this…!" he spits out in detest. "The sheriff…oh-hooo-ho, he'll make…make sure of it..." He nods frantically to himself, not quite able to accept that this was how he was going to go. He looks down at his stomach, almost tipping forward while he does. As he carefully lifts his hands to examine the entry wound, he instantly covers it again, breathing a lot more rapidly than before by the sight. 

The blonde walks plainly back to fetch the chair he had been sitting on as they waited for Robson's return. He brings it with and position it right in front of the dying man. He sits down and watches him with indifference while Micah takes a step back as the pool of blood seems to close in on his feet. 

"How about it, Robson? One last confession before you go? I usually don't care about people's reasons for wanting someone dead. Most of the times, it ain't hard to put the pieces together oneself... But you? _You_ I haven't figured out yet," he chuckles out. 

"Aw, the HELL with you… the _both_ of you…" 

The man is pale as milk by now and he stares up at them with heavy lidded eyes and strains of saliva mixed with blood drooling heavily out of his mouth. 

" 'Cause the man that paid us said you did something to his sister. What exactly, he wouldn't say. But I guess we'll never find out now, will we?" The blonde stares at the other in expectation for a few seconds, making sure Robson hadn't changed his mind. "No. It doesn't seem like it." 

"I'm the deputy sheriff of this county," the man tells them, speaking slower now. 

This causes Micah to widen his eyes and the blonde's smile to fade out, but not entirely. Seems like the man paying them had left that one detail out. 

"When they find me, they'll hunt you down… and you'll be grateful if you get the noose. I've seen the things they've done to some… and it...it ain't pretty." Now, Robson is the one to grin, showing fully his crooked set of teeth all covered in red.

Not even five minutes had passed since he was shot but he is on the very brink of death now. A form of panic sets in as he realises it himself and he starts to whimper, shaking violently. 

"It wasn't… not like this. No..." Never in his life, did he expect to die like one of those rotten asses with their bounties the same dead or alive. He had done better than them, after all. 

It is a new experience, seeing someone in anguish of this kind. Micah had seen people die. But not from a gunshot wound and definitely not by his hand. The many hangings he had witnessed, had he never seen the faces of the men that were sentenced, with them having a black hood over their heads. Seeing the eyes shoot back and forth by Robson causes him to wonder what exactly was going on in the man's head as he was bleeding out. 

He is mumbling incoherently now as if he had gone mad but he isn't capable of moving without losing even more blood but most of all it is his agony that holds him in place. 

In the back of his head, Micah can confirm that it seems excruciating to get shot in the stomach, hoping he never had to experience it himself. 

In the corner of his eye, he can see how his father shoot up from the chair and draws his gun in the blink of an eye at a sudden creaking sound behind them. At the same time, Robson falls dead to the floor in a heavy thud, landing in his own pool of blood. 

Micah instinctively, but not as swiftly, shoots around like his father with his gun drawn. 

Micah’s breath hitches. 

By the door that is now opened, stands that woman. The same one that had been serving beer to them and had been speaking and laughing with Robson all night. 

She stares at the both of them and then down at Robson before she sees the gun lying right in front of her feet. Robson's gun. 

"Nah-uh, don't even think about it, miss," the blonde orders and shakes his head for emphasis. "I'll shoot your brains out if you try." 

Micah freezes as he sees her desperate gaze that tries to find a way out of this. He can't shoot her. Not her. 

She doesn't say anything. Her brows knit up in distress and she darts her eyes between the two of them.

Micah grinds his teeth frantically as she stares down at the gun in front of her feet again. 

The blonde pays close attention, trying to figure out her next move. He could just shoot her then and there but he savors the excitement he feels in seeing her struggle with her choices. He is eager to see what happens. What he isn't prepared for is being jumped by his son.

In the few seconds she earns, she grabs the gun and aims at them but the kid is clinging on to the man's arm like his life depends on it so she decides to run instead, not wanting to hit the child. 

Micah doesn't know why he does it. Knowing that there isn't much time, he follows his instinct and he is certain that the man would shoot her if he didn't do something. So with as much force he could bring forth, he jumps at his father, grabbing around his arm. The blonde grunts and while he is superior in strength, Micah manages to disrupt his aim enough for the woman to flee. 

"No! You don't _have_ to kill her!" he yells at his father in their struggle, holding on and yanking his arm stubbornly. 

The man loses his temper in an instant, grabbing at Micah’s hand only to bend it away without much effort. He then clenches on to Micah’s throat and pushes him away forcefully, causing him to hit himself against the wall. "She's seen _our faces, Micah!"_ he growls at his son and grabs him by the throat again, pressing him against the wall. "She knows what we've done… we _can't_ let her get away! Or do you _want_ to hang? 

" _NO!_ Bu-" 

"And what about your brother, huh? _Huh??_ " The man clenches on harder by the second.

Micah struggles with getting any word out but he tries anyway. "No… I didn't mean-" 

"You damn _feeble-minded_ shit....! Look at what you've done… You're not a son of mine, pulling shit like this…" 

For the first time in a few long years, the mix of pain and his father's harsh voice is enough to make his lips tremble and his eyes tear-filled within seconds. "I'm sorry, pa. P-p-please pa…! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" His adolescent voice cracks more than a few times. He feels sick as he begs for forgiveness, something he had promised himself he would never lower himself to again. But now, his father's forgiveness is something he craves like air. He becomes that weak little boy again. The same one his father had done everything for him to not be. 

He grabs at the man's arm with desperate touches as if he was trying to hug him with them. The man is furious and shoves him away only to storm out through the door. 

The man sees her in the distance, riding as fast as she can on the faint path through the woods. 

^^^

Marion. That is her name. She never told the blonde stranger that part because he didn't hold any interest in her to begin with. 

Then had one of them deputies come to the saloon, same one she had been speaking with more than a few times asking about the missing women around this county. Same one that never did anything about it. But he had been a different man when he wasn't wearing his tin star. Had made her laugh and been a true gentleman. So when he suggested she could come by him when the saloon closed to talk about the unfortunate events, she had said yes. He would be waiting in his home, he had said. 

Charming man, that one. 

And now he was dead. 

And she was riding for her life. 

Marion shoots a look over her shoulder several times as she spurs her horse harder than she otherwise would have. 

Riding at that speed in the darkness, let alone in the woods, is a dangerous combination. But the danger she is fleeing from feels far more distressing than the first. 

Suddenly, a deafening shot is fired right above her, hitting the very tree she passes by a second after. She gets hit by the few splinters that explode from it, ripping out small cuts on her chin. 

She screams to herself in panic but spurs harder. She doesn't dare to look back but forces herself to. 

The stranger is there all right and he is approaching fast. Faster than her horse could ride. 

"No...no, no, no," she repeats to herself. 

Another shot ring out behind and this time it grazes her arm but it's deep enough to make her growl out through gritted teeth at the stinging sensation of flesh being torn away. 

"You bastard!" Marion screams out, her panic being replaced by sheer wrath for a couple of seconds. 

Taking a risk, she decides to bring out the gun she had been able to bring with, from where it is well tucked in under the belt around her waist. She grabs the reins with one hand, clenching on to it as hard as she can. She cocks back the hammer carefully, afraid to drop the handgun while doing it in the speed she is riding. As she struggles with turning her body enough to aim backwards, she is horrified to see that the man is twice as close as before. She aims in a haste and fires. The stranger ducks in an instant and the shot misses him by a few inches. It's enough for him to lose some speed and for Marion to gain some. She turns forward again but it's too late to evade from the thick branch growing low and straight across the path. She pulls hard at the reins just as she sees it and her horse turns roughly but she hits the branch right at her side and she can feel something inside her chest crack. Her ribs. 

She flies off the horse in an instant and with a violent landing just as painful as the impact of the tree, she takes a hard tumble and rolls across the dusty ground. Her horse is too stressed by the commotion and Marion can hear it running off in the dark. 

Managing to stay unharmed and clear in her head, she struggles with breathing as all air is pressed out of her lungs. 

Marion grimaces at the hundreds of sensations in her body at once and she tries to inhale after a few seconds of being incapable. She coughs violently and tries to get up, lying with her face to the ground. 

She can't hear the riding stranger anymore and when she looks up, she realises that he's already there, looking down at her from his brute of a horse, his face so indifferent she isn't sure of his intentions for a second. 

Her body is a damaged vessel filled with broken bones but for some reason, she doesn't feel half of what she should. The only thing she notices is how hard her heart beats inside of her. Marion sits herself up only to push herself further away from him with the help of her good arm and her shaky legs. She grits her teeth "No…! don't you come close to me… you let me be…! You let me b-" Her voice is powerless from the tumble she had taken, a constant wheezing in it with every breath. 

The blonde jumps down from his horse, landing steady on his feet. He doesn't rush. He takes his time, going after his next kill that in vain tries to save her skin. 

By brushing her good hand over the ground behind her, she searches for the revolver that had disappeared. It must have landed somewhere close by but she doesn't dare to break focus from the stalking man, afraid of what he would do if she looked away. He only needed to take a few running steps to get to her and it could be done within two seconds had he wanted to. 

"You don't have to do nothing to me…! I don't even know who you are, mister. Please… I won't tell a soul of what I saw," Marion tries, continuing to back away from him, holding her broken hand in her lap. 

"Now that's a lie if I ever heard one," the blonde says monotonously, sounding tired of the whole situation. 

"No I promise… please trust me… I won't speak with no lawmen." 

Micah Bell Jr. stares down at the bartender. Her nose is bleeding as well as that deep graze on her arm. He looks down further and is close to wince as he sees her hand. She hadn't even noticed the bone is crushed, one hand practically hanging limp and bent the wrong way, the other covered completely in strains of blood. 

"Well it seems to me, that you already did."

"No…no! I won't do it again, I-" 

"Good. Then you won't be having any problem coming with me, miss? If you're not in a hurry."

"Wh- What are you going to do to me?" she whispers in a low voice, knowing the answer all too well. In desperation, Marion glances a seeking look over her shoulder and lucky enough, she sees a glimpse of the revolver a few more yards behind her where it had landed. It's the only way. Only thing she needed to survive. She looks back at him when she hears him scramble. 

Marion inhales in a deep tremble instead of giving a scream as the man is suddenly squatting right in front of her. He must have moved rapidly, and all within a second. She almost freezes by the new position of the man and watches him with wide open eyes. 

He tuts her as she backs away from him even faster now, desperate to get a hold of that gun. It feels like it is miles away and so she hurries. With a push with her feet, she all but flies in the air and rotate her body to land just in front of the gun. She gives a last reach and gets it. 

Marion pulls back the hammer and aims at him. Before she can pull the trigger, the gun flies away as well as her index finger by the shot that is fired first. 

Her scream is haunting and loud enough to hurt in the blonde's ears. He involuntarily jerks his head by the shrieking sound of her. 

"Well I goddamn warned you…! Told you what was going to happen too and I didn't even do it half as bad as I said!" he explains with irritation, referring to his threat about shooting her brains if she tried anything. 

Marion's newly wounded hand shakes violently, covered in fresh blood entirely that runs down her wrist, painting her skin red. Her index finger is gone and she instinctively holds her useless hands pressed to herself, pulling her knees up to shelter herself. 

She breathes through her teeth, glaring at the man that would be the death of her. "Y-y-you bastard…" 

"I warned you," he simply repeats. 

"Who the hell are you??" 

Micah Bell Jr. huffs and looks the other way, still standing in a squat from his spot further away. "I'm nobody at all. A simple passerby… and you're just someone that got in my way."

"Got in your way?" Marion spits out. " _Got in your way??_ You was the one killing the deputy back there… Why??"

"I don't need to explain myself to you, miss…" he chuckles. 

"You goddamn lowlife. You're the ones making this world a bad place… as any other outlaws." 

"You've got a pretty dirty mouth for looking so clean otherwise. Well, perhaps not now… Now, you look like shit itself." 

Marion huffs at him. In the back of her head, she feels like laughing. Laughing at the strange turn of events her life had taken within what couldn't be more than ten minutes. But as a stronger feeling takes over, she starts to sob, realising this man might be the reason behind all those missing women. And maybe the deputy had figured him out. "You're gonna kill me…" Trembling breaths leave her. "Just like the rest of 'em."

The blonde grunts, not understanding what she was meaning but not locking himself on it either. "No, I won't." There is something glistening about his eyes. "But maybe someone else will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.


	8. ...and the birth of a sinful nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After carrying out their job, Micah’s inner conflicts cause him to fall apart. He is forced to put himself together again to become the person he believes his father wants him to be. Upon their return, Old Micah introduces a thing called self-worth to Arthur.

Micah sits on the floor with his arms hugging his knees, avoiding to look at the body of Jimmy Robson. He can feel the dried strain of a salty tear that had rolled down his cheek right before his father had left in his pursuit. He doesn't know how many minutes have passed with him waiting for his father's return, with or without that woman. 

In his wait, Micah had managed to pull himself together enough to think logically again. To detach himself from his own emotions towards their actions but also his own misstep and failure. 

So when he hears his father return by horse, Micah’s mind is calm. He is certain it is him and he absently gets up on his feet. 

Another minute passes and he can hear his father grunt from doing something extortionate from the outside. Micah realises in that second that he have, in fact, found her.

The door to the cabin is wide open and the man steps in with heavy steps from the extra weight carried over his shoulder. 

When he drops down the unconscious woman on the floor, Micah is sure that this was the most horrible sight he had ever seen. 

Her one hand is completely broken while the other is all bloodied and missing a finger. She is bleeding from her nose, some of it dried in on her sunburnt skin. There are small cuts on her cheeks and there is blood painting her gray jacket by the arm. A gunshot, he guesses, most likely caused by one of his father's Peacemakers. 

"You did this?" he asks so quietly that his father almost doesn't hear it. 

"She did it to _herself_ ," the blonde answers simply, panting somewhat. "And it was aaaaall _thanks to you_ , kid" he then adds coldly. 

It's enough for Micah’s stomach to fill with a heavy wave of guilt throughout his body. 

"If you had just let me take care of her back there, she would be gone by now… _Peacefully_. But _nooo,_ you disobeyed me… almost got us killed too… and for what?" 

The man isn't even putting any emotion to his words anymore. He just sounds… tired. Most of all - disappointed. 

"I don't know what got to me…" Micah answers shamefully. "I'm sorry, p-"

The man glares at him, causing him to stop in his sentence. 

"It…it won't happen again...sir," Micah says instead of continuing apologizing. 

The man lets his eyes wander over his son, no meaning in particular behind it this time. None which can be read anyhow. "One make mistakes… Anyone can. But one also have to do something in exchange for that mistake." 

The man paces around the body of the woman. She is still breathing and despite her many wounds, none are actually life threatening. Something that Micah picks up on, knowing that if they just left her there, she would be alright somehow. But that is not how this night would end. He would have to pay for his misstep and he can only swallow and do what is demanded as payment. 

The blonde turns his gaze to him instead but he does not slow down in his steps, instead he moves quietly behind him and places himself close. Micah can feel his body pressing against his own and whatever awaits, Micah tells himself he will go through with it. 

He can feel the man's big hand wrap over his own to guide it, open palm up. Micah’s own hunting knife is placed into it and he shuts his eyes for a moment. 

"This…" the man whispers softly and brushes his finger across the blade in his son's hand. "...will be your best friend when you can't use your gun… And at times, it's a whole lot more fun too. There are many things one can do with a knife." 

The man's hand is still underneath his, their fingers intertwined as his father brushes over his skin and the knife. 

"You know how to use a knife, Micah. You and Amos both. I've seen you hunt… putting the few unlucky ones out of misery when the arrow couldn't do the job properly. This… This ain't so different…" 

The kid can feel his other hand rest over his shoulder to give a small, almost reassuring, squeeze. 

"What does one do when an animal is in pain?" the man asks him. 

"Put it out of its misery." 

"Yeah… So… what does one do now?" 

Micah pushes away whatever thought and emotion that had made him stray in the first place. Having learned his lesson, the promise of not making the same mistake again is just as much a promise to himself. 

He takes a few steps towards the woman and when he gets to her, he sinks down to his knees. 

^^^

 _He feels a small drop of red roll down his temple and following his jawline. He knows it's not from him._

It's from her. He brushes his fingers across his face and looks at the blood. 

With a quick movement, he pulls his bloodied hand back and moves with new determined steps to search the few places his father hadn't, not wanting to anger him in a single way again this night. Mostly, he does it to have something else to focus on than Robson and that woman. 

He goes through the cupboard, considering food to be valuables as well. The few cans he find, he takes and rolls over to the door - he would have to pack them in the satchel placed on Tido when they would leave. Normally they hunted for food but these were always good to have in reserve. 

When he finds a full bottle of whiskey when searching the rest of the cupboard, he glances a quick one over his shoulder. His father's back is turned to him from the other side of the room. Micah quietly grabs the bottle, looking around for a place to hide it. His father didn't _need_ booze but he never turned down any opportunity to drink it. Micah does not want him even more drunk tonight. If he believed there wouldn't be any consequences to his reluctance of capturing the woman, he would be dead wrong. Despite Micah setting things 'right' by taking care of the problem, the man would deal out his share of punishment either way. If not straight away, then later, then tomorrow even. And if he was drunk, he would lose count of how many whips he had dealt out. He would lose his restraint and he wouldn't be able to control his strength, resulting in far harder strikes than Micah preferred. Both are scenarios which had happened enough times for Micah to hide whatever booze they accidentally stumbled upon. 

After putting it down and rolling it under the cupboard, he pretends to look underneath with an exaggerated grunt. 

"Nothing there?" the man asks him. 

"No, just found some food in here, checked under even. Nothing… And you?" he asks with a solid voice. 

"Nah… Damn bastard said he had some money… _valuables,_ he said. Keep looking." 

Micah gives a nod, pleased that the man couldn't distinguish his lie. On the other hand, the man was probably too distracted in his own search. 

While he is still on his knees, Micah decides to look under any other furniture in the cabin. He keeps himself close to the floor and searches with his eyes. 

"Gotcha," he says to himself as he sees a small box under the couch. He crawls to it and reaches under it. 

It's a wooden lockbox, key needed. 

"Found something," he says as he sits up, examining the new find. 

"I did as well. 32 dollars... It will have to do, we-" The blonde pauses when he gets a good look at the box in Micah’s lap. "Locked?" 

"Yeah. I'm gonna find the ke-" 

"Yeah well… Don't bother with it. Lock looks old, we can probably pry it open later," his father suggests as he puts away the money bills he had found, in his pocket. "It's time to go… this has taken far longer than expected."

Micah gets up on his feet and follows his father. Before leaving the cabin, he makes sure to get the cans of food with him. He turns around and gives a last long look at the two dead bodies in the room. He wants to tell them that he's sorry, but he doesn't, because he knows they wouldn't hear it, let alone accept it. 

^^^

Amos and Arthur are lying close to each other, looking up at the star-filled sky. The reason for placing themselves like that are more of a practical nature than a comfortable, although Arthur finds it surprisingly well needed. They share a quilt that is fitted for one person rather than two. 

"You're cold," Amos states to the other child, looking slightly worried. 

"I'm…I'm fine," Arthur answers, pushing away his friend's concern. He _is_ cold, given that the nighttime temperature had dropped unreasonably quick the last week or so. The only clothes he have are the ones on his body and whatever warm clothes he once had owned, had been packed on his father's horse in another life. A horse that the lawmen had collected with his father's capture. He didn't know what happened to her, but she was probably still in Coleshill somewhere. Probably with a new owner. He hoped she had it well. 

"You need to get yourself some warmer clothes, Arthur," the other child continues, as if he had read his mind. "I can help you hunt for some good pelts. We'll get food too so that we can eat." 

Amos' voice is soft and smooth. Like silk. It's like a child version of Micah Bell Jr's voice, only that Amos' different types of tones are far simpler to interpret than his father's. 

"Yeah…sure, Ame. Thanks." Arthur doesn't know what more to say to him. Mostly because of a lack in knowing how to express oneself but also because Arthur wasn't and would never be the talkative type, just like the blonde man had stated when he was first taken in by him. Things could, of course, change. 

Things _had_ after all changed, and in the course of only roughly a month. 

Arthur feels perhaps not safe...but _safer_ at least than he had ever felt while living with his father. 

This man is different, hard to read. Arthur never quite knows what his intentions are other than for them to learn about the world. That much, Arthur can respect. His own father never did teach him anything other than to shoot a gun. Never did give him any intimacy or a simple look that told him he loved him. That everything would be alright. But nothing was ever alright together with him. 

While Arthur is distrustful by nature, he is certain that in Amos, he had found a new friend. One that could be trusted. These are mere feelings of course, nothing that Arthur gave words to on the outside or the inside. It is only a simple gut feeling. 

The boy's brother on the other hand, Micah, is harder to take a liking to. Despite being no more than three years older than them, Arthur couldn’t help but notice that the kid was acting as he was all grown up. Everything he did, everything he said, was to make clear that they knew he was older, superior. But like them, he was still just a child in a false belief of knowing more of the world than he in fact did. A facade. 

When Arthur thinks of this, he forgets that the same thing could be said about himself. He was only eleven but perhaps he too was trying to grow up far quicker than he could. That was why he was eager to help out. Pull his weight. Prove himself he wasn't a helpless little child with no knowledge of the life they led. Maybe he and Micah were the same. 

The man hadn't let him come along on the job Micah and the blonde were busy with. He had said that _he wasn't ready for that kind of job yet._ Arthur could be hot headed with his will but something about the man's eyes told him it wasn't worth to argue about and so the child had accepted his decision, staying behind with Amos. 

They were to wait for them here, half an hour west of town right on top of a ridge overlooking the broad landscape beneath. It is a good spot, hidden from the main road and whatever bandits that roamed it. 

Having to be ready to ride as soon as they returned, the two boys put down no work at getting a tent up or making camp. So here they were, resting on the ground. In turns, both had tried to get some sleep, but it hadn't found none of them this night. 

"I've got a bad feeling about them. They should be back by now," Amos whispers, still looking up at a particular bright star in the dark sky. 

Arthur turns his head to look at his friend. "I'm sure they're fine."

"They didn't tell us what they were gonna do… where they were going to… what if they don't come back at all?" It almost sounds like the child is talking to himself for a moment. 

Arthur gives it some thought. "Then we're on our own, I guess…"

It isn't a comforting answer but comfort is the last thing Amos needs. Micah had told Arthur that Amos' biggest problem was the size of his heart. While the oldest kid hadn't told him to do anything specific about said problem, Arthur had observed the other child enough to know that Micah was right. The other child was simply too soft and naive. And given the life they live without a safe home to call their own, Arthur is determined to survive in the long run. So therefore, Amos needs to be strong too. Should they end up all alone, they needed to rely on each other's capabilities. 

"We could manage, you know… Being on our own," Arthur continues with a plain voice. 

Amos' brows are knit up in a worried expression as he turns his head to Arthur as well, both of them observing the other in the dark. Amos' deep blue and brown eyes glisten from the strong moon. "What do you mean?" 

"If something happens to them, we would have no choice but to continue on our own. We gotta be prepared for that, don't you think?" 

Amos blinks a few times, adding to the anxiety he feels in his body. He shakes his head. "No. They wouldn't do that."

Arthur is surprised to how steady the other boy's voice is. "Do what?" 

Amos' face slowly shifts, becoming more confident than he's ever showed himself. "Get caught, of course." The child offers half a smile. "My pa may not be the best of men, but he's not stupid. I know he steals...cheats…and uhm…" It is clear that he wants to add something else, but he never does. "They _won't_ get caught," he repeats instead. 

"Then why are you so afraid?" Arthur asks, wondering why the child fears them to not return. 

"Because if they don't come back, then they're surely dead. You see, Micah would never leave me behind. Neither would he." 

Arthur is somewhat surprised to hear him say that, putting so much trust in them. Micah, he can perhaps understand, but his father? He had done - no _did -_ bad things to his sons. It's no secret after all. Arthur had seen Amos' back and while he himself shares similar scars on a more concealed part of his body, it didn't mean it was something the children should accept. While Arthur was being respectful of the blonde man for taking him in and knowing he was treated well enough, he was still wary of him. This was at least what Arthur forces himself to think, not at all admitting to himself that he had become equally fond of the man. 

And Amos, he _loves_ the man more than anything else, despite his wrongdoings. 

Arthur had despised his own father. Being father and son never did mean anything to Arthur while he had it and he is slightly confused why it should mean anything to Amos. But apparently, it was all that meant something. 

"Anyone can die," Arthur answers, speaking with confidence himself. 

"Well my father isn't just anyone," Amos retorts without a blink of his eyes. 

Arthur briefly thinks that he's the spitting image of Old Micah in that moment. He then wonders if Amos worried exterior is a false image he had simply chosen to uphold. 

In their stare down, they can suddenly hear riding horses from a distance and both of them abort the unspoken competition. 

"That sounds like more than two horses," Amos warns as the both of them roll over to their stomachs to get a better view but also to maintain their bodies low to the ground. He pulls out his gun just in case. If it wasn't his father and brother, then the riders were an awfully long way from the main road. 

Arthur is frustrated that he hasn't got a gun on his own. He relies on Amos enough with his aiming, but not on his ability to pull the trigger. He looks back at Ema and where she stands hitched by a tree. They would have to ride fast if these were enemies they couldn't handle. _If_ they would ever get the chance. 

"You hear that?" Amos raises a hand for the both of them to keep quiet and listen. 

A familiar whistling tune can be heard and Arthur releases a breath in relief by the sound of it. "Micah," he says. 

The blonde and Micah returns not with only Tido and Ree, but with the addition of two other horses, one of them catching Arthur’s eyes particularly. It is of the same breed as his father's old one. 

Amos runs up to the both of them but neither of the two makes a sign that they would jump down. 

"We need to ride. Now," the man orders. "Arthur. You keep this one, he seems easy enough to handle." The blonde backs with Ree to release the rope he had thrown over the lean brindle Thoroughbred he had brought. It was magnificent. The other horse is of Morgan breed, looking older and more worn out than the bunch.

Amos had rolled the quilt they had used and is already on his way to jump up on Ema, quickly joining their reunited group. 

The whole time, Micah keeps his head lowered and his face slightly covered by his hat and his scarf pulled up to his chin. He doesn't look at Amos in which the latter feels slightly saddened by. 

Arthur combs his fingers through the mane of what he believes is his first very own horse and truth be told, he didn't even care how they had gotten it in the first place. He smiles widely to himself. "Thank you," he says as the most genuine he's ever spoken. 

The blonde gives a nod. "You needed a horse," he merely answers before he motions Ree to turn around and for them all to ride. 

Micah is awfully quiet the whole way, Amos notices. 

^^^

They ride for a long time. Longer than Amos is prepared for and he wonders what exactly his family members had been up to. Arthur tries to catch Amos' attention quite a few times during it all but with all of them sitting on their galloping horses, it's easier said than done. Something is truly off with the oldest kid and in his observations, Arthur is quick to notice the older kid's hands. 

Almost an hour must have passed when they reach and stop at an abandoned and small village located next to a river, one that seem to be another remnant from history. It's mostly rundown but the roads around there seems lone enough at this time of night, making it an optional stay. 

The blonde is the one to scout ahead and he does so by foot with his gun drawn, going through each of the houses that were still standing. "This used to be red skin territory," he tells lowly to his boys as they examine the houses that were plastered with mud and protected by thatched roofs. It differs from the wooden houses or log cabins that were the most common sight for the children when it came to housing. 

Amos, being the wary of the three, feels a chill run down his spine as they move through the ghost village. There's something that feels wrong by staying here. "What if it _still_ is?" he asks as he and Arthur closes in behind his father.

"It's not," the blonde answers without a doubt, holding more knowledge than his son. "This place must be a lifetime old…" He brushes his fingers across the facade of one of the few houses that were still intact. "You've got nothing to worry about, kid. The people that lived here are long gone and I don't think they'll return." 

"Why? What you reckon happened to them?" Arthur wonders, leading his new horse behind him with slow and guarding steps. 

"They were driven away from their land by us white skins. And people saw to that they did and the people did it happily." The blonde was never one to lie or keep the harsh and ugly truth from them. 

"That doesn't sound fair," Amos comments in a whisper. "What wrong did they ever do to anyone?" 

Micah Bell Jr. instantly turns his head to his youngest, causing Amos to almost flinch by the rapid movement. He chuckles lightly. "Well, _nothing_ really. Many would say they were of the wrong color, is all…" he answers indifferently, making it hard to know what is his own opinion on the racial matter, though his oldest son knows exactly where the man stands in it. 

Arthur furrows his brows deeply by the man's words, supporting Amos. The man notices the look as much but gives a smirk back to the orphan, _daring him_ to talk back. 

Micah still sits on Tido as the others move on foot, half listening to them speak of the native people. He hadn't said a word since they had left Robson's cabin. 

He is reminded by what he had obtained there and so he jumps down to sit and examine it. 

Arthur is just about to give a sign to Amos about Micah’s condition as the man opens his mouth again. "The hour is late… Or should I say early? Either way… we should all get some sleep… Go and get your bedrolls," the blonde orders. "Oh and Arthur, I've got something else for you. Come along with me…" The man doesn't linger but walks away and leave them on the spot, not waiting for Arthur to follow. 

The child exchanges a look with Amos, taking the opportunity to cock his head at Micah’s direction further behind them. " _Something's wrong with him,"_ he mouths without a sound. 

_"I know,"_ Amos mouths silently back and pulls away to get his belongings that were placed in the packing on Ema. Arthur moves with hesitant steps after the blonde who walks further away from the center of the village until he stands right next to the river that quietly runs by, waiting for him. It's enough distance for them to speak undisturbed. 

"Yes, sir?" Arthur asks, wondering what exactly the man would want to give him, considering he was already just given a horse. 

The blonde brings out a revolver, the same one he had accepted as part of the payment from that nameless townsfolk. He keeps it in the palm of his hand so that the kid can get a proper look at it. "I'd say it's about time you got a gun on your own. I don't think that varmint rifle or the bow is of use if you have to defend yourself. So consider this one yours." 

Arthur eyes become slightly bigger and rounder at the gift he hesitantly but happily accepts. The gun is heavy, even in both of his hands and he examines it closely. "It's too much, I… I don't know how to pay you back…" He says in uncertainty, not in any way expecting this to be free. 

"Perhaps, one day in the future, you might be able to. I would expect it." 

Arthur nods and looks up at the lean built man, his face looking worn out after whatever events the night had brought them. He thinks and thinks. Looking over the man's clothes to see any resemblance to what he had seen with Micah. Again, his eyes catch the ugly scar on the left side of the man's neck. That's when he notices some dried in blood across the man's shoulder, slightly covered by his long coat. 

"It's rude to stare." 

"Is Micah alright, sir?" Arthur asks straight out, ignoring the man's comment. He swallows. "What exactly did the two of you do...?" 

Micah Bell Jr. tilts his head slightly at the child's straightforward and no-bullshit nature. It was one of the things he liked about the kid. "I was paid to kill a man that had wronged _another_ man. Micah shot him," he tells slowly of their sins in his close to angelic voice. 

Arthur’s mouth is slightly agape and he narrows his eyes in disbelief at first to the man's harrowing claim but the answer comes so unfiltered that it couldn't be a lie. He feels a chill run down his spine. 

"Then came this woman that was supposed to meet with that very man, and she saw everything. Micah had to deal with that too."

Arthur instinctively takes a very slow step back without thinking about it. "Micah… _killed_ her… and that man?"

"Yes, on my order," the man answers without hesitation, taking a step of his own but forward and towards Arthur. "If he hadn't, we'd be banging the bars by now. And you and Amos would be on your own."

Arthur doesn't know how to respond to all of this. He feels sick but at the same time… numb. Numb to the mention of the killings that allegedly had taken place, like it didn't really concern him or his life. His own father had been a killer but now it is clear that the man before him is one as well. He had suspected as much, but to hear him speak so naturally about it was another sign that this was how the world simply looked like. And they were _all_ forced to live within it. 

"And concerning Micah’s wellbeing, you'll have to ask him about it yourself. Would be wrong of me to speak on his behalf, don't you think?" 

"I… I suppose so…" 

"Is it unpleasant to hear about? Death?" 

The man is very close to him now. So close he can feel that smell that only he had. Everyone had their very own smell and although it's a noticeable layer of grime and unwashed hair in it, there is another. Like freshly sun-kissed skin mixed with gunpowder. He doesn't know why, but the smell feels… protective to Arthur. Like some safe haven he hadn't been offered anywhere else. 

He feels confused when he's telling himself that he hates this man, and more so as he realises that he, in fact, does not. "No," he whispers to the man who smirks by that and proceeds by lifting his hand. 

Arthur doesn't shy away from the big hand that suddenly holds his cheek and caress a gentle thumb over it. The man's palm is warm against his skin and the child finds himself to lean into the touch almost unnoticeably. "You've got potential, Arthur," the man whispers to him, tilting his head even further at how affected the child becomes by the innocent but meaningful touch of appreciation and encouragement. "You know what that means?" 

"Nooo…" the boy answers in a light voice, sounding very much his age in that moment.

"Means you'll be able to do anything. Become whatever you damn well want to be." The man then pulls his hand away so abruptly that Arthur’s head jerks slightly to the side where he had his cheek rested, missing the sensation. 

Arthur doesn't know why the man says the things he say to him. As far as he knows, he hadn't done anything to deserve his words. What Arthur _does_ know, is how weak he feels to them each time he is given them. But also how addicting it gets to hear words as those again. To know that he mattered and was worth something. His previous inner monologues about everything wrong with this man suddenly turn very silent by then.

Old Micah has a feeling the child hadn't had a form of human connection for a long time. Perhaps never. And because he needed the child to keep an emotional bond to him, this kind of safety and closeness would be limited to small portions so that he would be strengthened, not weakened by it. The child needed some purpose and while turning down the opportunity to be considered a son of his, Arthur would find himself loyal to this family only. Micah Bell Jr. would make sure of that. A trust would have to be established and by offering the child this basic need, he wouldn't have it in him to leave him when he got older. He would stay and he would become strong, together with the man's two sons. And the man would witness this. That was his wish anyhow. But things could and _would_ most certainly change. He knows this too. Is drawn between in savoring the certainty or get caught up in the excitement of the _uncertainty_ of what kind of men his boys would eventually become. 

While the man and the orphan are moving away from the village, Micah can sense a presence creeping on him from behind. He sits with the lockbox over his crossed legs, bending and trying to outfigure the lock. "Missed me, huh?" he asks while getting out his knife, never looking back over his shoulder. His eye twitches somewhat when he sees it's still blood on the blade. He frantically wipes it off against the wet grass, causing the dried blood to dampen and look fresh once more. 

Amos' eyes narrow as he only now notices the shade of red on Micah’s hands. He sinks to his knees next to him and tries to take a look at his brother who shies away from him by turning his head. Turning his whole body for that matter, as if he is more comfortable in having Amos behind him than next to him. "What have you done, Micah?" he whispers so quietly, afraid that his father would somehow overhear them. "I didn't see it until now… there's blood on you… on your hands, that knife, your face…" Amos swallows, his eyes becoming tearfilled. "You hurt someone, didn't you?"

Micah doesn't answer, he only bends the lock with his knife even harder until it snaps, causing a loud and metallic sound to ring out. He grunts slightly, not wanting to show how utterly tired he had become by only bending and breaking the lock. He feels exhausted from the long night. 

"Who do the horses belong to, huh?" Amos continues softly, not a single accusing tone in his voice. On the contrary, he speaks without judgment, with encouragement even, which makes it difficult for Micah to resist open his mouth about what he had done. The first thing he wanted to do when he saw his brother was break down in his arms, allowing himself to be the one to get comforted for once. He knows that it is possible. His brother wouldn't deny him. Never deny him. But he couldn't let Amos listen to what he had done. Afraid that it would push the child away even further. And while he knows he himself is the one to have done most of the pushing away lately, he feels an urge to reach out his hand and bring Amos back to him. 

But now Arthur is one of them, causing the child to be pushed away from him only to get closer with Arthur. Micah knows the two boys are getting along nicely, feeling replaced with the orphan as he sees them do things that he and Amos always did together. It isn't Amos' fault though, it was his own entirely. 

"The Thoroughbred was for Arthur. The Morgan is to sell in the next town we pass, the man told," Micah answers and avoids both Amos' gaze and previous questions. "The old owners didn't need them no more…" He brushes his fingers gently over the wooden box, yet to open it and look at what was inside. 

Amos glances over his shoulder, seeing their father and Arthur still deep in some conversation at a distance. He moves himself closer so that he and Micah’s bodies press against each other's sides. "What did he made you do?" he whispers so quietly it's hard to hear. "Something…bad?"

Micah ignores his brother and decides to finally open the wooden box. 

Amos loses his focus on his brother as he too sees what's inside. 

It's a lot of things and if one would look too quickly, the different types of jewelry would perhaps be the only thing catching one's attention. But as Micah lifts and examines every piece, his heart beats slightly faster.

A single gold necklace, a silver hairpin, but also… 

Micah lifts up a simple hair ribbon and while he looks closer, he notices there's still some hair stuck on it. Amos is confused by the findings but still wants to see more. Micah puts the ribbon back only to notice how many rings there were in the box. At least a dussin. These weren't the most valuable jewelry he had found but they were worth something to someone, he figured.

"Looks like wedding rings, don't it?" Amos comments, looking closer at one of them. "Where… where did you find all this…?" 

By those words, Micah takes the ring from Amos' hand and puts it back in the box only to close it and push the whole thing away from them. His eyes dart back and forth as he puts all the pieces together. He goes through the story from the town of widowers. 'A legend,' his father had called it as the bartender had shared the town's rather young history. 

Answer to why that woman showed up at Robson's door. Him making her laugh over at that saloon, being all charming to her. 

Micah starts to chuckle. Silently at first, causing small, almost soundless, bursts of air to leave his smiling lips. He shakes his head to himself, covering his eyes with the palm of his hands. 

"Micah…what's so funn-" 

Micah starts chuckling wildly now, so much that tears are welling up in his eyes and his palms become wet. He lowers his head and his body is close to tremble from his laughing attack. 

"Micah…" Amos whispers, looking back only to see that both Arthur and the blonde man were observing them both from their spot, noticing the louder commotion. 

Micah suddenly feels very tired and the few dried stains of blood he had on his cheek are smudged out when mixed with his salty tears. He looks at his brother, smiling widely. " 'This was their fate', he said…" 

Amos doesn't know what to say, not understanding a thing.

"What's gotten into you, boy?" his father's voice suddenly asks, grabbing at Micah’s arm to pull him up. 

Micah chuckles but yanks his arm back when he stands up. "Back there… You said that it was Robson's and that woman's fate to end up like that… But it was more like _her_ fate. With Robson… it seems like we did the world a favor, didn't we, _sir_ ," Micah spits out. He kicks lightly at the wooden box on the ground for the man to take a look. Arthur and Amos look at each other somberly, the latter of them realising what exactly the two of them had done. 

The blonde is wary of his oldest son, observing every move from the unstable behaviour he was showing. As he squats to take a look inside the box, every piece of jewelry and item, all typical for a woman, tells a story to the big picture of the town's mystery. Ironic isn't enough. 

"Amos. Arthur." The two children attentively turn their heads to the man, waiting for him to continue. "You should leave. Go to your sleeping spots for the night. And you'll won't interfere in what you hear. Go. Now." The man doesn't even make an effort to give them an 'otherwise.' There is no need. 

Amos looks over his shoulder back at his brother several times as they leave for the intact house in the middle of the ghost village. 

The man nods for a reluctant Micah to follow him, both of them walking south along the river. "And?" the man asks his son after a few minutes of shared and tense silence. "What if we did the world a favor? What exactly does it change, Micah?" 

Micah can hear his father speak through gritted teeth. It is clear his patience is soon to run out with him. He halts, both of them standing face to face as the sun is discreetly starting to rise in the very early morning, painting the sky a dark shade of pink and orange. 

"Because then I don't got blood on my hands…" Micah mumbles. 

"What?" the man spits out. "Speak louder, boy." 

"Because then I don't have _blood_ on my hands!" Micah repeats, but yells it this time. "If he was a monster and she was dead already!" 

The man is quick to grab around both of Micah’s wrists and to hold them in an iron grip that makes Micah wince and his legs to almost give out. "This again, huh…?" He says in a dangerous voice, adding a pinch of sarcasm in it. He rotates his son's hands so that his palms turn upwards. "Then what's this, huh?? What, _is_ , this? What does it _look like?"_ He pulls his arms upwards so that Micah has to stare into his own hands. "ANSWER ME." 

"Blood! It looks like blood!" Micah exclaims as the man is close to crushing his wrists. His fingertips are close to purple by the man cutting off his blood flow. 

"And what does it _smell_ like to you?!" the man asks and presses Micah’s hands to his face. 

"Blood!" Micah cries out, close to sobbing now. "Please let go… It hurts!" 

His father wouldn't have it. "Taste it!" he orders. 

Micah resists, pushing back with his hands for them to not get to their destination but it is no use and as his father rubs Micah’s own hands in his face, forcing him to 'taste, taste, taste,' Micah licks over his own palms and does just that. 

His father pants by the boy putting up a fight. The boy who has broken down in a cry, his body becoming limp so that the man has to lower himself to his knees with the boy now in his arms. " _What_ does it taste like to you?" he whispers into his son's ear, his normal and soft voice returning. 

Micah shuts his eyes. "Blood… "

"You seeee…You _do_ got blood on your hands, Micah… killing someone, anyone, good or bad, someone who deserves it or don't… it doesn't matter. It's all the same. You still got blood on your hands for shooting Robson. For slitting that woman's throat when I asked you to… you did what I said and I won't forget you pulled through, Micah… not even _now_ , when you're making a complete fool out of yourself just like back in that cabin..."

Micah knows he shouldn't, but he presses himself to his father's chest and demands it to be answered. When he feels his father's palm rub over his back, he sobs even harder. 

"You need to learn how to pull yourself together, dammit…" He presses his cheek to his boy's head, rubbing himself slightly against his soft and blonde hair. His lips move against his head. "I haven't seen you like this in years… crying… sobbing… like a lost child in the woods again when you tried to leave me... Helpless… No, no, no… That's not you, right?" The man presses his lips to his son's head, giving a hard and long lasting kiss.

Micah’s fingers and nails dig deeply into the man's arm, craving further touches to still him. The warm hand that rubs over his back only to brush up over his neck and then to the back of his head is enough for Micah to shiver in pleasence. 

"It's alright, child… You will learn from this, won't you?" 

Micah nods eagerly against his father's comforting chest, knowing that he had been forgiven for his second mistake in less then a few hours. 

"And you'll know better too." 

"Yes!" Micah exclaims. Yes, yes, yes. Just as he is about to hug his father again, the man pushes him away and ends the shared closeness. 

Micah is able to land on his hands, standing on all fours as he looks up at his father's massive figure. He seems ten times bigger all of a sudden. 

"No need for you to get back up," he says, walking over to a tree that grows by the river. "Sit on your heels… it might be the best choice." 

Micah inhales deeply. Deeper than he's ever done. He doesn't have to look at what the man is doing. By the sheer sound, he knows he's breaking off a long enough twig that would serve his purpose. It couldn't be too thick and it couldn't be too thin. As thick as his finger was always a good measurement. Micah bites his lower lip hard when he hears the twig being broken from its branch. He swallows, accepting that this was his punishment. He did this to himself. Never again would he defy his father. A promise he had broken too many times to count by now. Each promise feeling so important as he makes them to himself. Each one losing its meaning over time only to break a new rule. 

Micah takes off his coat and pulls his shirt over his head. 

The first strike catches him in the middle of his breath, causing his whole body to tense up. 

Micah lowers his head somewhat and closes his eyes as he loses count on how many whips he had been given by his father's hand. Parts of his back feels particularly cold against the soft and cool air. Other parts feel warmer and he knows it's from his own blood that escapes the freshly made wounds on his back.

Although it hurts immensely, Micah hasn't let out a single sound. And mixing with the pain, comes a new type of sensation as he comes to peace with his situation. He embraces it. 

Micah releases the breath he'd been holding. He slowly opens his eyes as the punishment stops. He is prepared for it to return but it doesn't. He knows his father is watching him, probably tired in his arm from how many times he had swung that twig. Micah lifts his head up, his face showing only a catatonic expression that the blonde man could not see. "Thank you..." Micah speaks without emotion. "Thank you." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While re-reading this final chapter before posting it, I realise that intimacy became a recurring theme throughout this fic. Between all of the characters apart from maybe Amos and his father. The lack of intimacy and the craving because of it. When I write of this and about admiration and hate, it was meant from a child's perspective but not exactly formulated with a child's own words, obviously. More the feelings within them. Would they have spoken out loud about it, the dialogues would have sounded very different, I'm sure. 
> 
> Now, while I'm aware that Micah isn't the most appreciated character within the fandom of rdr, he's definitely one of the most intriguing imo. So it's really nice to get creative about his past, although I wouldn't exactly call this fic's plot very eventful or original even. The themes 'I gotta earn daddy's respect' or 'how the innocent boy became a cold-hearted monster' has been done before, right. But it was fun to write either way. 
> 
> While this fic haven't been read by many and probably won't be, it's actually the one I'm most proud of since I've put a lot of love into it. And that's great and I felt like sharing this feeling while I have it. 
> 
> To the ones reading and leaving encouraging comments, I assure you, it does a lot more than you think. So thank you, really. It's nice to see that my writing is appreciated, if only by a few. 
> 
> While I believe this fic can be done here, I'll probably post a second part when I've got the time. It'll pick up three years after this one and include my own version of the Briggs ranch (or was it farm?) incident. 
> 
> Take care. And remember how awesome you are.


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